


Into the Lion's Den

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bottom Dean, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gun Violence, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, John Winchester Being an Asshole, M/M, Misogyny, Murder, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 66,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the son of a notorious crime boss, disgraced and thrown out of the organization. But Sam's getting married, and to attend the wedding Dean will have to claw his way back into his father's good graces – that might require a little help from the other side.</p><p>Written for the DeanCasBigBang challenge on LiveJournal.<br/>Art by subcas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Art master post: http://subcas.livejournal.com/1106.html
> 
> Within this story, there is a lot of homophobic language, both within the narrative and as part of the characters' dialogue. I would not recommend lovers and supporters of John Winchester to read this story. There is also misogyny, which is not explicitly addressed due to the fact that a lot of it comes in the way of degrading language about women and female prostitutes within the characters' internal thoughts (in terms of loyalty and value).
> 
> The homophobia is a strong theme that is not supported by any except the 'villains' in the story. If you are sensitive to this kind of language or theme, feel free to ask me for more details, or give this story a miss.

The job is relatively simple, but still Castiel feels obligated to send up a prayer of thanks for the help of his brother, because he knows that without Gabriel he probably would have turned on his heel and walked right back out of the North Trust bank as soon as he'd seen the heavy gates, impressive-looking guards and the steel-mounted alarms on the side of the building.

Gabriel, though, he has a way with people, and if not people, he certainly has a way with machines. Not to the extent that Castiel does, but hey, he's just a fledgling – he's learning still, and it's Gabriel's job to teach him.

"You see that, there?" Gabriel whispers out of the corner of his mouth, jerking his head to one side and Castiel's eyes slowly follow the movement, like he's just a bored customer letting his eyes wander, and he sees the set of blinking lights in the far corner of the building next to a heavily-reinforced door. "That lock has a key pad on it, and you see the lights blinking above?" Castiel nods. "Notice anything weird about it?"

The taller man nods, pressing his lips together, and rolls his shoulders. "The mount is too low," he says, letting his eyes continue their circuit of the room, in the opposite direction – when people's eyes wander, they don't do full circles. They bounce around, darting like flies, and Castiel needs to look convincing. "That pad isn't operated by code alone."

"Or at all," Gabriel answers, nodding and smiling with barely disguised pride in his younger brother and nest-mate. "Good job, Cas. That's actually an Albion system. They only make them in England, as far as I know, and they're actually not operated by touch at all."

Castiel's brow furrows. "What, then?" he asks.

"Look."

The younger man nods to himself, licking his lips and drumming his fingers against the ugly blue fabric of the chair – they had come into this bank for a job, casing out the place because Castiel had chosen it for his initiation – rumor has it that the Eagles keep most of their air-shipping contacts listed in a safe deposit box in this bank, and if Castiel could manage to attain it then it would allow him a place in the Angels for sure; would definitely let him get his wings. Gabriel, the man he had approached to ask for help, is one of the most powerful members of the Angels, and has always had a soft spot for Castiel: the child of one of the Angels' dock workers and a man who'd spent maybe a week in town getting to know her. Now, looking around the room, Castiel is desperate to notice whatever Gabriel has wanted him to notice, unwilling to let his superior and, dare he say it, friend down.

He watches as a suited man walks in through the front door, which stands between the waiting area where Castiel and Gabriel are sitting and the desks where the commonplace folk are putting through their transactions, and his bright eyes follow the movements of the man, mouth twisting when he sees the slight fold in his jacket that means he's carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster – a different place than the security staff at the bank. Which makes it all the more interesting when the man walks up to the door without hesitation, pauses with his back blocking his actions from view, and then steps inside.

Castiel leans his elbow out, just slightly, to push into Gabriel's arm to get his attention. "Someone just went in," he says.

Gabriel hums, nodding in time with the music playing faintly over the stereo system, but Castiel can tell he heard.

"Someone not employed here," the other man adds, for emphasis.

"And what makes you think he's not employed here?" Gabriel asks, too casually – Castiel is being tested, he knows, but not what on. He presses his lips together, tries to think about it logically in a way that will impress:

"He carried his weapon at the chest, not tucked into the back of his slacks. He had somewhere to be and he went." A pause. "And he wasn't clean-shaven. His clothes were nicer than those working here."

Gabriel nods to himself, hiding a smile behind his hand. "That's because that, my dear little brother, was their leader."

Castiel's eyes widen. "Their _leader?_ " he repeats, and he can't help it – his back goes a little stiff in fear, shoulders straightening, hands instinctively reaching for a weapon. It's ridiculous, he knows, and he forces himself to relax as soon as possible, not giving themselves away, but to think – the leader of the Eagles just walked in, just walked right past Castiel and Gabriel, it was…it was unfathomable. Like seeing the Devil.

Gabriel hums again, nodding to himself, and slouches a little in his chair, looking for all the world like he's just relaxed and bored and waiting to be seen to. "This might get a little complicated," Gabriel says. "If he notices us – which he eventually will – it will get messy. We should probably leave now."

Castiel cocks his head to one side, unsure if this is another test. "Should we?" he asks, fingers curling into the edges of the armrest of his chair. "We aren't breaking any law – this is a public bank and we have just as much right to it as anyone else."

This time he can _feel_ Gabriel smiling. "That," he says with emphasis, "is very true. Alright." With that he suddenly pushes himself to his feet, brushing his hands down the front of his suit jacket. "Shall we get this show on the road? We seem to have less time than I planned for."

Castiel follows suit, getting to his feet and following Gabriel as he joins the sectioned line leading to the desks, and says nothing as the shorter man pointedly motions him to go in front, to lead the way of the case – this will be Castiel's job, after all, his right to earn his wings and Gabriel should be seen to give as little guidance as possible.

"Good morning!" the blonde woman chirps from behind her desk when Castiel and Gabriel approach. She has too much make-up around her eyes, hiding the crow's feet and the forehead wrinkles as best she can, and Castiel supposes she's pretty, in the bleached-blonde treated-teeth kind of way. Way too well paid for a bank desk job, he supposes. "And welcome to North Trust Bank. How may I help you this morning?"

Castiel forces a smile to his face, and tries to make it warm and charming like Gabriel and Michael and it seems like every single one of his brothers can pull off. She just blinks at him as he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a key to one of the deposit boxes in this bank that Gabriel gave to him.

"I need to access my safe deposit box, please," he says, placing the key on the desk and sliding it over to her, and she nods, quickly looking up the number on her computer's system, before she pushes herself to her feet and walks from behind the desk.

"This way, please, Mister Novak," she says brightly, leading the way to the door that Gabriel and Castiel had been observing before, and Castiel watches silently as she swipes her Identification Card through the little slot, and the light turns green after she pushes in the code. Still with a smile, she hauls open the heavy door and allows them to pass through, and it shuts behind them.

Gabriel flashes Castiel a conspiratorial smirk when she leads the way down the brightly-lit cement corridor, but Castiel doesn't allow himself to return it – he feels a prickling along his back, between his shoulder blades, as though someone is following them, or watching them from behind, although he knows that that is ridiculous because the corridor only extended one way and he would hear if someone joined them afterwards.

He tracks the turns they make – thirty paces, left, ten, right, two doors on either side, forty paces – before the woman stops in front of another door much like the first and slides her badge through another panel, typing in a code that sounds the same. Weird, Castiel thinks, that they would choose a keypad that makes different sounds like an ATM, which anyone can overhear and dissect if they know the sounds.

_It's fake,_ Castiel realizes with a start. _It's all fake, smoke and mirrors._ The expression on Gabriel's face says that he knows it, too.

"If you'll just step inside," the woman says, holding the door open for them, but Castiel hesitates from stepping across the threshold. _It's too easy,_ he thinks, stepping back from the empty room – and the room is empty. Undoubtedly there are cameras and motion detectors of all sorts to make the space secure, but it just seems barren, dry like the desert. There's nothing in this room, nothing they need or want, and Castiel can't force himself to step inside.

It's not choking – Castiel knows enough about himself to realize that this hesitance isn't being brought on by nerves, or anxiety. No. It's caution – they can't go into the room. They _can't_.

"Mister Novak?" the woman asks, her voice floating to him through the haze of his thoughts, and he blinks, licking his lips, turns to find both Gabriel and the woman watching him – she with concern, Gabriel with keenness, like he's trying to read Castiel's mind, and the younger man just shakes his head, taking another step back. His mouth is dry and he can't speak and all he can do is shake his head.

"I'm afraid my little brother here," Gabriel says, stepping forward without skipping a beat and placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder to help steady and ground him – "is a little nervous around enclosed underground spaces. We'll have to come back another day."

And then they're walking away, hurrying back down the corridor but then they freeze in place at the sound of a slide being pulled back, snapping into place, and Castiel turns just enough to see the woman aiming a small handgun at them.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mister Novak," she says, voice stern and steady, but her hand is shaking badly. She's aiming for Castiel's chest and at that distance the shaking probably wouldn't let her miss, but it's the difference between living and dying and Castiel's mouth twitches.

Of course.

Castiel can hear Gabriel sigh, and the older, smaller man's shoulder – the one next to Castiel, slumps down. Enough to give him a clear shot. Castiel uses the shield of his brother's body to allow himself to reach behind him, hand wrapping around the grip of his own gun while the woman continues to try and stare them down with her badly-shaking hands.

This time, his smile is not forced – this kind of situation, he was trained for this. And this woman is scared, probably just counting down the seconds until an alarm can be triggered or maybe it already has; maybe more people are rushing to her aid now. Castiel begins to count.

"Were we that obvious?" he asks, smiling more widely and it sends a tremor down her arm – she's holding a nine-mil Glock and that's a heavy weapon, especially for someone not used to holding one. The gun's muzzle is pointing a little too south to hit Castiel's heart.

_Four_.

"You weren't," she replies, jerking her gun in the direction of Gabriel's back. "But we know a higher-up when we see one." _Three._ " _Angels_ ," she hisses, eyes narrowing. "You should go back to the docks where you lowlifes came from."

Castiel sucks in an exaggerated breath. "Ouch. Harsh, sweetheart." _Two_. The fingers on his gun grip a little tighter as he gently slides it from place, letting his arm fall back into place, still shielded by Gabriel's body. "You should show some respect."

_One. Bang. Bang. Bang._

"Let's get the fuck outta here," Gabriel hisses, grabbing Castiel's forearm and hauling him into a run behind before the body of the woman even hits the ground, her eyes wide and surprised, three holes driven through the center of her chest. "Those were good shots, Castiel – remind me to tell Michael how good a shot you are."

"Thanks," Castiel replies tersely, keeping his eyes peeled for the doors opening as they pass through in a hurry. Then, he stops, calling Gabriel to a halt.

"Fuck," the smaller man grunts, stumbling to a stop. "What?"

"The boxes, Gabriel," Castiel replies, turning to look over his shoulder. He can't hear a damn sound of pursuit and although he knows that won't last long, he also knows that if they were this close and didn't manage to close the deal, Michael would be pissed. He knows that he would rather be dead than cast out, and he knows Gabriel feels that way, too. It wouldn't do to fuck up his first job like this. "Come on."

"Castiel!" But Castiel isn't listening – he's running, back the way they came, left-right-two-doors-on-either-side, and skids to a halt next to the body of the dead woman. He bends down, extricating her gun from her tightly-wound hand and tucks it into the holster he had pulled his own gun from, and snaps the key she carries from the chain around her neck.

"What's the box number?" he asks as Gabriel rounds the corner and rejoins him, sees him holding up the key in triumph.

"Seven-sixty-one. Come on, little bro, _hurry._ "

Obediently, Castiel locates the box, sliding the key from around the woman's neck, and takes out his lock-picking case from his back pocket, kneeling down onto the ground and getting to work picking the second lock.

He almost has the last chamber undone when he hears gunshots, followed by a muffled curse. "Fuck, Castiel, come on!"

"Almost there!" he yells, jerking the lock open with a triumphant snarl, pulling the metal box out from the wall. He opens it quickly, finding another box inside, and curses – they don't have time for him to unlock this one as well. "Fuck. Okay, okay – I've got it! Let's go!"

He tucks the box into his jacket – it is small, no bigger than a letter envelope, and thin and light when he slides it into his inner pocket along with his own key and the banker's key, lock pick put away and put back in place in his back pocket. He checks the magazine of his gun, finding seven bullets left, and runs out of the room. Gabriel is standing with three bodies at the end of one corridor, the way they hadn't come, and Castiel jerks his head back. Gabriel nods, bending down to relieve the guards of their weapons, taking two of the guns and kicking the third away, before he rejoins Castiel, gun trained behind them while Castiel takes point.

"How the fuck do we get out?" he asks once they're back at the door that leads out into the main part of the bank – they can't just stroll out of there like they own the place. If the woman had managed to call back-up, probably every gun out there will be trained on their foreheads the second they walk into the room.

Gabriel grimaces, leaning up against the far side of the corridor, checking his magazine before sliding it back into place. "The same way we do everything, little brother," he bites out, voice pained and Castiel can't see where but he can smell the raw, metallic scent of blood and knows that Gabriel got shot – somewhere, but he can't see. _Damn it._ "With style."

With that, he shoves open the door with his foot, gun pointed towards the ceiling, and lets out five shots. Castiel has just enough time to take in the sound of screams before there are answering shots, and he's out there with his brother, gun pointed to any suit he sees coming their way. He's covering Gabriel's back but the older man is taking out his fair share even with his wound and Castiel has never been so proud to be an Angel than when he sees Gabriel – wounded but still so powerful, his gun steady and his aim perfect. Castiel wants that – wants to _be_ that.

They burst out into the brightly-lit streets of the city, for a moment the wall of noise hitting them and making them pause. Castiel still has his gun pointed back towards any suits coming after them, but they seem to have taken out most in the lobby and, while Gabriel is looking for a car, Castiel picks the last one off, startling the nearby pedestrians in the street and sending them scattering.

"Come on, little brother!" Gabriel yells, and Castiel follows his voice and the sound of his breathing down the stairs, towards the back alley lining the side of the bank. At the mouth of the alley is an old, rusted-out junker of a car, but the tires look new and it appears to have been moved there recently, which hopefully means it will move again now.

The doors are unlocked and Gabriel shoves himself into the backseat, hissing and clutching at his stomach, and Castiel closes the door behind him before sliding into the passenger side door, intent on sliding across the making a quick getaway.

He finds himself, unfortunately, colliding instead with the body of a man. The man grunts in surprise, straightening up where he must have been sleeping against the door of the car, but he looks all-too alert and ready for a fight when he fixes his gaze on Castiel.

And for a moment, Castiel is frozen. The man looks young, maybe mid-twenties, mud and grease pasted into his skin and the dryness around his mouth speaks of a lack of steady water, the glaze in his eyes a lack of sleep. He's dressed in dirty, too-loose jeans that look like they may have fit him once, but a lack of food makes them hang loose on his frame, and a leather jacket that is at least three sizes too big for him is draped across his shoulders.

Then he unfreezes, disturbed by the lack of anything in the man's eyes – very bright eyes, green and gold meshed together in the middle, but there is no emotion in them; not even something basic and instinctual like surprise or fear at finding oneself suddenly in the presence of unexpected company.

Castiel carefully aims his gun at the man. "Get out," he says, voice low and steady.

Instead of answering, the man's eyes flick to the rear-view mirror, undoubtedly giving him a view of Gabriel in the back seat, and Castiel can hear his brother's rough pants of air; whatever had hurt him before, wherever he was injured, it's getting worse. They need to _drive_. He can hear the bank's alarms.

"Where do you need to go?" he asks instead of backing out of the car like Castiel expects him to, fishing out a key from his pocket and turning it into the car's ignition, letting it rumble to life with a dull, rickety roar like something is caught in the air vents. He is already pulling out of the alleyway before Castiel can ask what the Hell he thinks he's doing.

Castiel presses his lips together, hand tightening on the gun, but remembers Michael's teachings; _Don't kill the innocent._ This man has done nothing wrong aside from, it looks like, fallen on hard times. Besides, he _is_ already driving them away and though he can still hear the bank's alarms and the traffic is far from accommodating, they do seem to be edging into the clear.

Gabriel doesn't have time for Castiel to fret over an outsider driving them somewhere. "Seventh and forty-first," he bites out, sitting back. It is not a well-known Angel site, but they have a medic there, in the place that from the outside looks like a parking garage with such extortionate and inconvenient rates that no one actually bothers to park in there, and so it is private and perfect and ideal. The man nods, humming to himself, and makes a turn towards seventh.

Castiel allows himself to relax somewhat, because the man's humming reminds him of Gabriel and Gabriel always puts him at ease.

He also likes that the man doesn't ask questions. When they pull up outside of the building, Castiel throws him a small roll of twenties – enough to maybe buy him a motel room for a couple of nights and a good meal – before he exits the car, hauling Gabriel out behind him and supporting his brother as they stumble into the building, leaving the city behind.

 

 

 

"Nice digs."

Dean can't help but smirk to himself, letting his shoulders drop as he leans forward, sighing, resting his forehead briefly against the doorjam to the outside. Outside – running, but he can't run. Not with the voice behind him. Probably has the whole place surrounded – that's the usual style, anyway.

"Slummin' it now, Sammy?" he asks, forcing his expression to smooth out into careful neutrality – a poker face to rival a stone statue, that's what his father had always said, and Dean was proud of that.

The owner of the voice – Sam Winchester – is cloaked in shadow, because Dean's apartment (that he shares only out of necessity and because his roommate is more kindly to take his ass as payment than money) only possesses one lightbulb in the front room, and it doesn't extend all the way to the back wall. But Dean can see the tips of his shiny polished shoes, catches the glint of a gun on the table in front of him. He keeps his back pressed to the door, hands in full view, trying in vain to spot the two men undoubtedly flanking Sam's sides, silent and still but very surely there. "Wouldn't figure ya to stoop so low. What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

A sigh, then, Sam leaning forward just enough that Dean can see his hands – their universal sign of trust, always a sign of trust with the Eagles to show people their hands. Dean's eyes narrow and he doesn't move forward. "I heard rumors, Dean – rumors that greatly disturbed me."

Dean snorts, rolling his eyes and makes sure to avoid Sam's. "You sound like dad."

There is a pause, then, before Sam stands and steps into the light. He looks good – he's grown since Dean last saw him, almost six years ago. Definitely filled out from the lanky teenager Dean used to be able to ruffle the hair of and help with homework, teach him how to load a gun as fast as possible and how to tell if someone's lying to you. He's taller, broader across the shoulders, and there's a set to his jaw that reminds Dean of their father more than he would care to admit.

He squares his shoulders in return, lifting his chin in defiance, and forces himself not to reach for his roommate's gun, tucked into one of the cabinets lining the right side of the door.

"Look at you," Sam says, like it's a curse, a smear of bad taste on the inside of his mouth, his upper lip curling as he gestures towards Dean – dirty, grease-covered, Dean doesn't look as well as Sam, all tailored suit and shiny shoes and hair combed and clean. "You're living in the _slums_ , Dean. You look sick, and thin – I've heard stories you've even been going to the docks at night. What the fuck, man?"

Dean's mouth curls up into a hateful smirk, one corner lifting up higher than the other in something fake and cheap – his porcelain façade cracking, just a little, at the disdain and disgust in Sam's eyes. "That's not an answer, Sammy," he says instead of anything else, forcing his voice to remain low and even.

The bigger man's eyes narrow. "What question?" he spits out, breathless with anger and frustration. His brother has always been proud, even to the day their father kicked him out onto the streets with naught but the clothes on his back and six bucks in his pocket.

_It's what I had when I started,_ he'd said. _You'll be fine._

"What brings you here? And as vexed as you are," Dean repeats, his tone tripping into condescension and false concern now, as he tuts softly and shakes his head. "You look stressed, Sam. Sit down, relax a while."

"Dean -."

"Maybe I can even calm you down like we used to, eh?" the older brother asks with a not-so-subtle wink, flashing teeth at the look in Sam's eyes. "S'a good thing I'm such a _slut_ , Sam, or Dad would have found the both of us together, and where would you be then?"

Sam's eyes narrow, his mouth twists, and Dean wants to punch him, because he looks more like their father than ever when he looks at Dean like that – like he's so disappointed, and hates when he sees. He looks the way Dean does when he gazes upon the streets of this city, dirty and disused, and he hates.

"I'm getting married, Dean."

The news startles the green-eyed man, though not as much as he thinks it should. After all, he reads the newspaper, same as the next guy, once they're discarded in the dumpsters after being read by the rest of the population. He might get the news a day or so late but it doesn't matter to him – none of the robberies or petty gang fights or famous weddings makes him give a crap.

So he remains silent, and Sam's shoulders drop as he sighs. "Her name's Jessica. And I think you'd like her. I…I want you to be at the wedding."

Dean blinks at him, and swallows. "Name the date, Sammy; I'm there," he says.

And Sam is already shaking his head, that twist to his mouth again, stupid floppy hair that Dean has never been able to convince him to cut to a respectable length (and is honestly surprised that their father hasn't either) falling around his face, shielding his eyes. "Dad won't let you do that, Dean – not like…" Guilt, then, silencing the rest of that sentence, a small movement of his arm gesturing to the whole of Dean's sweaty, dirty self.

Just like that, the stone is back on Dean's face, the dark glint in his eyes. His words come out almost as a hiss, lip curling back from his teeth. "Not like what, Sam?" he asks, almost daring his little brother to just come out and say it, but Sam is just looking at him, helpless, and Dean's eyes narrow. "A _fag?_ Or a _bum?_ Which of so many facets of me does Dad hate most this time?"

"Dean, it's -."

"Nah, Sammy, it's okay," Dean says, waving his brother off and extricating himself from between the wall and his giant of a brother, going to the fridge. He can feel the hollow point of cocked guns aiming at his back when he reaches in and pulls out a beer, snapping the can open with the same hand and taking a swig, because if Sam is going to stay much longer then Dean needs to be drunk for it. "Old man's set in his ways, I get it." He turns around, then, pointing one accusing finger at the younger man. "You, though… Can't say I'm surprised. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised."

"Dean." It's the way Sam says his name, perhaps, that makes Dean fall silent – the way he used to when the tables were turned and Dean had been defending his own father against one of Sam's many 'Why do we live like this' moments of his life. He had hoped Sam would grow out of it. Now he wishes he hadn't.

Slowly, splaying his hands out wide in the air in front of him, Sam then reaches into the lapel pocket of his jacket, and while Dean goes tense, he's not reaching for the place where a gun would be on a shoulder holster, and his other hand isn't shaking or tense, so he takes another swig of beer. Besides, Sam wouldn't shoot him and get his own hands dirty, not when he has two fully armed men willing to do the dirty work for him.

Maintaining eye contact, Sam then pulls out a small white envelope, folded in half, and reaches out to place it on the cabinet next to the door. "In there," he says, "is a direct debit card, which is established at North Trust to the name of Robert Plant –," Dean smirks at the name, rolling his eyes, "and has an upward cap of five hundred on it. Anything you pull out, five hundred will be topped back up immediately."

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, shaking his head, though he can't say he's surprised – again. But anyone who could give someone a seemingly endless supply of money, no matter how low the margin on control, well, that someone has too much fucking money. ATMs let out withdrawals of, what, three hundred a day? So – the older man does some quick math – potentially Dean could withdraw nine grand a month, and it probably won't even hurt Sam to do that. Too much fucking money.

He gestures towards the envelope with another sneer. "To what do I owe the generosity, Sammy? Does Dad know you're doing this?"

"Of course not," Sam replies, a conspiratorial smile coming to his face that Dean can't help but match – that kind of smile makes Sam look five years younger. Dean wonders if Jessica makes him smile like that – is this wedding even one Sam himself asked for, or one that Dad encouraged and approved of? Is the family one that Dean should really know? "It's just…you need to clean up, maybe if you manage to pull something off that Dad would approve of…"

Oh. Dean sighs, setting his beer down, looking at the ground. Of course.

"I get it, now," he says, leaning back against the fridge, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle as he looks his brother up and down. Then, he laughs – it's short and sounds more like a curse than a laugh. "You know, it's weird how much you disapprove of how I live my life now if you're more willing for me to sell myself to our father than to a john." He tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips in thought. "Huh. 'John'. Ironic."

"Dean," Sam bites out, tensing, "I'm just trying to help."

"Yeah, well." Dean straightens, then, shaking his head. "I don't need that kinda help, Sammy." He pauses, then, fingers itching for the beer can again, but Sam already sees him as so many things – he doesn't need to add 'drunk' to that list. "I'd like you to leave, now."

"Dean -."

"Last time I checked, breaking and entering was still a crime," Dean says, cutting Sam off and his little brother is looking at him so hopelessly and helplessly and Dean wants to hug him and punch him at the same time. "Even for people like you."

"People like _us_ , Dean," Sam reminds him, making Dean's mouth twist and his eyes narrow.

After a moment of hesitation, he mutters 'Yeah', rubbing the back of his neck. _People like us._ "Please, Sammy, just leave. I'll…see you around."

Sam's shoulders slump, a tired look coming to his face, but he steps back from Dean's door, reaching out for the handle as he turns and nods towards the two men, who slink out of the shadows without a word or a passing glance to Dean – they leave the apartment, no doubt checking the corridor as well and making sure there is no danger outside before Sam steps out.

"Think about my offer, Dean," the younger man says as he steps back over the threshold. "It'd be really great to see you there."

"What's the date, Sammy?" Dean asks, almost too quietly to hear and for a moment he thinks Sam might not hear him – or does hear, but chooses not to acknowledge his question. Maybe because he doesn't think Dean will actually go through with it, but – Hell, it's Sam's _wedding_. He'd be a fool to think Dean would willingly miss it.

The pause feels like it'll stretch on forever, but Sam's hand doesn't let go of the door. "April seventh," he finally says, sighing out the date, and Dean nods, pressing his lips together. That's not a very long time away – if he does do something, it'll need to be fast.

"Okay," he says, to the closed door and the empty apartment. Sighing, he reaches down and finishes the beer, tossing the empty can into the sink with a low curse. Then, almost absently, he picks up the envelope Sam left behind, able to feel the raised numbers on the plastic card through the thin white paper. He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket and then walks towards the air mattress in the spare room that he had sectioned off as his own space, taking off his jacket and folding it up underneath his pillow.

He'll have to move – if Sam could find him with relative ease then it means Dean's stayed in one place for far too long. Pity – this place at least has running water and, compared to the potential neighborhoods he could be living in, it doesn't suck. Dean's roommate, though about two dirty needles away from killing himself and fairly aggressive when it comes to the rules of cohabitation, isn't around enough to really get in Dean's way and at least he has a job.

Dean has a job, too. And his boss kind of likes him. Maybe they can sort something out there, too.

By the time his roommate comes back home, Dean's had another beer and all of his stuff is packed into one pathetic duffle, worn around the edges and patched up multiple times with jeans that were worn too thin and t-shirts that ended up getting shredded in bar fights.

"Hey," Dean says in response to the grunt of greeting that the guy gives as he turns and locks the multiple bolts and locks on their door, one by one, each small click another meaningless barrier between them and the outside world. "I drank two of your beers today."

His roommate stops from where he was locking the doors, two away from a full set – one of which only he possesses the code to, and Dean allows himself a breath of relief before the guy turns to him, biting out a low curse. The grab he's expecting, and he keeps his eyes closed when they close the door for the night and his neck starts to hurt from the awkward angle of being shoved into the mattress, his roommate biting out low curses and promises to make him pay lulling him to sleep.


	2. Two

The cheers are almost deafening when Castiel returns to Michael's large apartment, the penthouse suite on top of one of the largest buildings in their city – it seems like everyone is there, every fledgling right up to the Archangel himself, leaning against his waist-high bar with a drink in one hand and his wife in the other, smiling wide at Castiel like the man is a weird experiment that promised very pleasing results.

"Castiel!" Michael says, his voice carrying above the cheers as he lets Lilith go, stepping towards the youngest and newest member of the Angel gang. "Welcome home, brother."

The cheers start up again, worse this time, a deafening and chaotic wall of sound that makes Castiel wince, shoulders going tense.

"How is Gabriel?" he asks when it has quieted enough for him to be heard, and Michael sighs, nodding.

"He is recovering well. Had you gotten him to the doctor any later he may have suffered too greatly to revive him." Castiel breathes a small sigh of relief – Gabriel is well. If Gabriel is better then everything is okay. Then, a hand settles itself on his shoulder and Castiel's eyes widen when Michael turns, raising his drink up high for all to see. "To Castiel, our newest brother and Angel!"

Michael turns to him when the chants of his given name turn almost too loud for Castiel to hear himself think; "Your acquisition of the safety deposit box was a true victory, Castiel. As soon as Gabriel is well you shall acquire your wings and we will have a celebration. It's only right."

Castiel smiles wide, accepting the drink that is pushed into his hands by the blur of his brothers, one by one congratulating him on the job well done and Samandriel, the newest before him, the one who had been able to completely disrupt an entire shipping route for the Eagles and ended up sending their weapon supplies to Canada, draws him into a tight hug which he returns.

Gabriel had taught Samandriel as well.

"Well done, Castiel," the other man says, eyes bright and proud. He's a little younger than Castiel, had made his move earlier in life and has already made it to Ophanim level – one of the youngest ever to do so, the stretch of his wings just visible under the sleeves of his shirt, a deep brown. "That was a great find – and I heard that the actual leader was in the building with you!" His eyes are wide, awe-struck almost, as though that makes the feat even more impressive when Castiel is pretty sure the Eagle didn't even know they were there until they were gone. "How did you know? How did you get out?"

"I…" Castiel swallows, ducking his head, and takes a drink, grimacing at the taste – straight bourbon. Of course.  "It was more of a lucky break, really," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "I just got this…feeling…that it was a trap and then the banker had a gun on us and -."

"But going back to get the prize anyway!" Samandriel smiles, raising his glass to Castiel in a gesture that already the older man is starting to hate – if it hadn't been for Gabriel, Castiel would likely have been shot dead in that corridor and no one would have been the wiser. Angels go missing all the time; it's sad but it's true. "True dedication, Castiel, and I think you've definitely won Michael over. You'll be Seraph in no time."

Castiel smiles. A Seraph – the highest Angel one can be while still working amongst the people, doing the dirty work in the city. Above them lie the Powers and Thrones and Dominions, and above that Archangels. Michael is the only Archangel still alive, the most powerful Angel in this city, and their leader.

He wants that – he wants to be a Seraph, wants to keep working within the heart of the city and doing anything and everything he can to protect those above him. To be able to do things like infiltrate Eagle territory without being recognized and save and fight for his brothers – yes, to be a Seraph would be a high achievement indeed.

He raises his glass, clinks it against Samandriel's. "Here's hopin'," he replies, finishing his bourbon in one swallow as Samandriel does the same, the younger Angel raising his empty glass and starting up the next round of cheering.

"Let's wake up the whole block, boys!" That's another Angel, one that Castiel doesn't know by voice, and the man smiles, accepting a second drink pressed into his hands, and finishes that one as well. It's going to be a long night.

 

 

Morning finds Chuck Shirley opening the thick, heavy padlock to his junkyard site, pushing open the light cross-link fencing and letting the chain hang at the entrance as he steps inside, about to do his rounds for the morning – the fence is pretty much enough deterrent for petty thieves, especially since the potential prize inside is hardly worth the effort – but there are holes and holes can mean pests.

He's passing by the old shell of a Chevrolet Impala sitting on cement bricks when he catches movement from within and freezes, peering cautiously inside.

"…Dean?"

The young man starts awake, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye as he blinks up the other at the small figure of the robed man. Dean likes Chuck – and, more importantly, Chuck likes Dean. Or at least appreciates talent where it's present.

Chuck owns the large, low-rent auto dealership that Dean had found himself wandering to when he had no other place to go, kind of like what airports and rent-a-car services use, but only if you don't want someone asking too many questions and don't mind if you don't drive out with an Audi or Lincoln sports car. It's good money where Dean can get it, honest when he can't, and somewhere in between walking in and looking like a sad, drowned puppy and now, Chuck pretty much trusts him with the whole place.

Dean is a _people person_ , and that comes in handy pretty damn well, because he knows that he's going to need to step up his lifestyle if it will earn him a place back, if not at his father's side, then at least orbiting the man. Sure, Dean's no silver-spooned child, but there is something to be said for a comfortable and well-protected life, and Dean will be _damned_ if their father refuses to let Dean go to Sam's wedding just because of some stupid fight they had six years ago.

More of a disownment than a fight. Point is, Dean's going to prove his father wrong. He's going to prove _everyone_ wrong, and that needs to start with Chuck.

"Mornin'," Dean replies, pushing himself upward with a huff and shaking his head to clear it. The man's eyes are sharp, if wide, when they look Dean over, lips pursing out in a mix between disappointment and pity at Dean's disheveled and dirty look – he hadn't risked a shower when sneaking out of his roommate's bed and apartment, so he'd only had his duffle and the dirty clothes on his back.

"Come here," Chuck says like a disapproving mother checking behind her son's ears when Dean climbs out of the skeleton of the car, standing a little sheepishly for Chuck to inspect. "Jesus Christ, Dean, you look like Hell. What happened?"

Without thinking, Dean is already following Chuck as the little man continues to make his rounds of the place, before he follows Chuck to the trailer acting as his office and steps inside with a sigh. "Got kicked out of my place," he says because it's the least complicated explanation, and because Chuck doesn't ask questions he accepts that with a nod. "Figured I could crash here, at least for a couple nights before finding a new place."

"Sure, sure," Chuck says with an absent nod, flicking on the coffee maker and sitting down in the broken wheely chair that's missing two wheels with a sigh. Dean just stands there awkwardly while the man tries to function without his first three cups of coffee, staring out of the front window when Chuck rolls back the sliding metal sheets to reveal a view out into the lot. "I can leave this trailer open if you want – it's rainy season, after all."

Dean nods, smiling a little. "Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Chuck just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Will do good to have some eyes here at night anyway. Business has been slow. Means something big is building." And Dean nods to himself, though he's not quite sure what the other man means – Chuck has been in the city all his life, knows things about how it works and what the rumbles underfoot mean when something is about to happen; some tension building between the two big dogs who run this town.

"I'll need a place to go eventually," he says for lack of anything else to say – silences with Chuck are almost always comfortable, but that's just the thing; the guy probably can and will go on in silence all day if it so pleased him, holed up in his trailer on his typewriter while Dean makes the sales, and yeah, that's a comfortable arrangement, just the two of them, but it sucks when you have something to say and he's just giving you all the time in the world to say it. "You know anyone who's likely to take in a kid off the streets?"

Chuck snorts, shaking his head. "Sorry, Dean. But I'll let you know if I think of anyone." And Dean sighs, nodding. He hadn't expected much, to be fair – Chuck has just about as many friends as Dean does, that he knows of. They aren't, well, the social sort.

"Fair enough," Dean replies when he spots the first of their returns crawling into the lot – an old Ford from the eighties that has more coats of paint than passenger seats – and he steps outside to handle the money and deal with the undoubted fix-ups that'll be necessary after the joy-ride.

 

 

Dark, golden-brown eyes narrow as he gazes out across the city, sprawled out before him like the body of a spent lover, tired and dirty and stained. His upper lip curls back in anger and he turns, carefully swirling around the whiskey in his glass, before he tips it back, swallowing it down in one rough mouthful.

"Which box did they take?" he asks of his secretary – a quiet man that embodies what would happen if hamsters suddenly took on human form. His hair is messy and unkempt, blue eyes bright and wild and nervous.

"Seven-sixty-one, Sir," the man replies meekly, his legs jogging together in his seat before he crosses one over the other, looking down and clasping his hands together tightly. The man behind the desk curses, slamming his fist down on his large wooden desk, before taking a seat behind it and fixing the scrawny secretary with a steely gaze.

The pause seems like it goes on forever. The man looks like he's about to pass out when John finally speaks; "Do you know why I hired you, Mister Pike?" he asks, raising a brow at the way the man is squirming in his seat.

The man nods. "Yes, Sir."

"Tell me, then."

"You…" He pauses, swallowing loudly. "I was to infiltrate the Angel ranks and give you information about their next move, Sir. Give you the upper hand, Sir."

The man nods slowly, pretending to give that grave consideration. "Yes. But it seems like some wires have gotten crossed, haven't they?" The man opens his mouth – to argue, to defend himself, the man behind the desk doesn't care and he doesn't have time for it, either. He waves the meek protests away, leaning back in his chair. "Make sure you clean up your act in the future, Mister Pike. I am hardly so forgiving twice." The man nods, pushing himself out of the chair with fervent thanks, before he scurries out of the room, leaving the door open for Sam Winchester to walk back through.

"It doesn't do good to make the bees piss themselves, Sir," Sam says with a snort of derision, taking the chair that Mister Pike had vacated before, crossing his leg so his ankle rested on his knee, leaning back. "You wanted to see me?"

John smiles grimly, wiping a hand across his mouth, and pushes himself to a standing position. "There's been some talk, Sam," he says, turning once again to gaze out across the city, hands clasped behind his back so that Sam can see them. "They say you've been going to the west part of town – near the docks."

Sam winces, brushing some of his hair out of his face when John turns to regard him coolly. "Now, I know you don't want to dirty your dick in some Angel whores, so, tell me, what brings you that way?" he asks, with the careful reserve of someone who thinks they already know the answer but will listen to the bullshit excuse anyway, just for entertainment's sake.

And Sam contemplates, for a moment, lying to his father, but he knows it wouldn't do himself any good. Besides, it can't hurt to let John know his plans; "I went to see Dean, Sir," he says, tensed for the explosion, but John merely blinks at him, seemingly stunned at that answer. "I wanted to tell him about me and Jess, offer him an opportunity to clean up his act."

John snorts, smirking to himself. "And I suppose that conversation ended well," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Sam swallows, turning his face away.

"At least I tried," he mutters, almost too quietly to hear, resentment coloring his tone as he looks at his father's back – six years. Six years Dean's been living in the slums and the man hasn't even spared him a second thought, Sam would be willing to bet. "I don't think he's interested, though, no."

"It's interesting," John mutters to himself, swinging up onto the balls of his feet before settling back down.

"What is, Sir?"

John pauses again, thinking – _interesting,_ he thinks, _that these things happened within a week of each other._ "Oh, nothing," he replies, smiling as he turns back towards Sam, arms spread wide in a hug that the younger man rises from his feet to reciprocate. "Don't you worry about it, son, I'm just an old man with a brain who likes to talk back to me." He shakes his head, smiling in a self-deprecation, guiding Sam towards the door. "Go on, now, you've got a sweet young thing to welcome you to your bed. Don't keep her waiting."

"'Night, Sir," Sam says, smiling a little despite himself and shaking his father's hand before he turns to leave, John closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh. He will have to make some phone calls, certainly – it wouldn't do good to have his wayward son causing havoc within the city, especially if there is some third party messing with his plans, which would mean the Angels are too far ahead of his own plans to sabotage them.

No, that wouldn't do at all.

 

 

By the end of the day, Dean is exhausted – the Ford had ended up needing new brake pads, and let's not even get into the damage done to a station wagon that someone had to physically push into the lot because the pedal had disconnected, and one of the cars had to be written off completely and he'd had to tear it down for parts and call in the scrap boys for the rest of it.

He's just about ready to call it for the night, when Chuck sidles awkwardly up to him, handing him a roll of hundreds that Dean knows will amount to twelve hundred pretty dollars, and he smirks to himself as he realizes Chuck is calling in one of his favors. Well, it hadn't been on his agenda for the night, but Hell, what's a bit more money to fatten up his wallet? The unexpected tip from the blue-eyed man had been a nice surprise, but it wouldn't stretch far, and Dean is determined not to give Sam the satisfaction of dipping into his bank account unless he really, really has to.

"I'm gonna need to use your shower first," he says, gesturing to himself, and Chuck nods, scurrying out of his trailer to start locking up, leaving Dean alone to schlep off his dirty clothes and pull some relatively clean ones from his duffle bag, stepping into the tiny cubicle in Chuck's trailer that acts as a shower.

The water is lovely and warm, if low-pressure, and Dean sighs as he feels himself start to relax under the spray. Say what you want, there's a certain contentment one can always find in a nice, hot shower, and Dean carefully, painstakingly cleans out all the grease that's caked into the back of his neck, gritted in his hair – he washes the sweat and dirt from his skin and behind his ears, even bites down his fingernails to try and get some of the grease out from under there, too.

It's therapeutic, almost, cleaning himself from many days' labor, faking the clean and well-kept façade of most of this part of the city. Anyone can clean up well enough given half the chance, but it's up to his line of work to present the illusion flawlessly – like a john isn't really picking up any two-dollar whore off the side of the streets.

Granted, going to the docks at all makes him rare enough that what money he does get is good money, but still, it pays to make himself presentable.

Dean closes his eyes, slicking back his hair to allow the water to run down his face and chest, before he carefully uncaps the small bottle he'd snuck in with his clothes, allowing the silicone-based lube – it makes for a bitch of a clean-up but stays good for the entire night – to pour out onto his fingers, before he reaches behind himself to slide one finger in.

_Fuck_. It stings. His roommate had really done a number on him last night, but he forces himself to breathe through it because, Hell, that's what happens when you're paying literally out of your ass. He bites hard on his lower lip, free fist clenching tight and braced against the wall of the cubicle, and forces another finger inside. He doesn't have time to be gentle or really prep himself right at all – Magda works very select hours and if Dean doesn't get to her first he'll lose her and Chuck, well, he owes the guy this much at least.

He manages to get himself up to three fingers before stopping with a low curse. It hurts, like a bitch, and he knows this night is gonna sting, but whatever, maybe he'll get lucky and find a john willing to finish the job properly – unlikely but hey, there's always hopin'. He washes the lube off his hands, switching the shower off, and hurriedly towels himself dry and gets dressed.

He makes it out in time for Chuck to be finishing his rounds, and smiles wide, tapping the pocket that has Magda's money in it so that Chuck can see. "I'll see you tomorrow, boss," he calls, earning a small, nervous smile and a wave from the man, as Chuck locks the gate behind Dean and they both go their separate ways – Chuck to a motel down the street where Madga will meet him, Dean to the docks.

 

 

"Little brother!"

Castiel smiles despite himself, turning just in time for Gabriel to envelope him in his chair into a tight hug, his shoulder digging uncomfortably into Castiel's neck and, for a moment, cutting off his air supply.

"Gabriel," he gasps out, patting the man's shoulders awkwardly to let him know that it's time to stop hugging him because he'd really like to breathe now, thanks, but he can't stop smiling when Gabriel withdraws, this proud look in his eyes like Castiel's just said his first word or learned how to walk or discovered cold fusion. "Up and about already? I'd have thought they kept you on bed rest for longer."

"Six days is enough for me, thank you! I'm not going to let some damn bullet keep me down for long!" He wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Besides, I've got a party to plan! My baby brother got his wings!"

Castiel flushes, biting his lip and looking down, fingers curling into the armrests of his chair. "Yeah, well, you helped me pull it off. Without you I -."

"Hush now, Mister Humble," Gabriel says, stepping closer and clapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder, before leaning in. "Never admit you couldn't do it on your own, little bro – that's weakness right there." Then he straightens again, talking louder as though someone else might be listening, clapping his hands together. "Now, you and me, we're gonna go get your wings, and then we're gonna hit the town. Never let it be said my baby brother didn't get his party!"

Castiel raises an eyebrow, pushing himself to his feet. "I really don't think you should be going anywhere in your condition," he replies loftily, though he's smiling because he knows it's ridiculous to try and dissuade Gabriel from anything involving a celebration. Castiel is pretty sure that the man could have fallen from the sky and broken every bone in his body and would still insist on doing body shots off his nurse – because that's the kind of person Gabriel is. He is the life of the city.

"I'm picking you up from your place in exactly three hours, and you're going to be a good little boy and let big brother take you out on the town. Trust me!" Gabriel calls, turning on his heel and walking out of Castiel's closet-like office. "It'll be the night of your life!"

"I hardly doubt it," the younger man mutters under his breath, sighing and logging off the system – with Gabriel planning something and an hour commute ahead of him to get home, Castiel figures there's no point trying to be productive for the rest of the day. Besides, he'll need to make sure he ingests enough carbs to sustain Gabriel's 'required' level of alcohol consumption to ensure he's not face-down in a gutter by the end of the night.

It's a rite of passage for any Angel – you get assigned a job, and once you complete your job you get your wings and are accepted into the ranks officially. This rite is usually accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol and probably a woman or five, and while Castiel isn't necessarily sure tattoos, booze and floozies should go together, it's how it's always been done. And who is he to argue with tradition?

 

 

The docks are tricky territory – Sam was right to be outraged at hearing about Dean going there. The docks are blatantly marked as Angel territory – if they were animals it would reek of Angel piss, that's how marked the docks are as _Angel property._ They own everything that comes into and out of this city by sea, whereas the Eagles tended to own the banks and the skies.

Dean isn't worried about that so much, though – if anyone who is anyone sees his face, they wouldn't recognize him. He's changed a lot since being under his father's wing, and only very important people would know him from the first Adam. Luckily, very important people don't squander their time in bars and whores.

No, what makes the docks tricky is that, despite being Angel territory, they are also the highest places for the sin – sins of the body, desires for drink and women, yes, those are accommodated here. Street rats can earn a few bucks by pointing new sailors in the direction of Mary Boulevard, the street of the Angel whores and strip clubs and the better bars. Where the pavement is lined with women who'll kill you for fifty bucks, bring you back to life for a hundred, and take you home for a thousand. Why men who choose to call themselves after the warriors of God endorse such behavior, Dean will never know.

They do have a few taboos, though, what's left of them – the whores are always women. Mary Boulevard does not cater to those otherwise inclined, and as far as Dean knows, Eagle territory doesn't either. An Angel has no need for male hookers, so handling himself on those streets can be difficult – when he's obviously not dressed to buy, but to sell, it's a fine line between making a killing and being killed, and Dean has to tread carefully.

He spots Magda with two other women, one shorter with dark hair that he has never seen before, and another familiar face. Magda, Dean supposes, is as close to another friend as one can get on the streets of this city, with her fiery red hair that flares down to her waist and her skin the color of chocolate. Dean has no idea how she manages to get her hair that color and still have it look so lovely, but it must be a trick of the trade, and a trick that pays off well.

Her face splits into a smile when she sees him – Dean's entrance always means a definite twelve hundred rather than a possible nine – and throws her arms open wide to hug him in greeting. "Baby bird!" she coos, tutting softly and lifting Dean's chin with one finger. Dean can feel her long nails digging into the soft flesh of his neck. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"The better for seeing you, gorgeous," Dean replies with an easy smile, for being around Magda is easy, and comforting. She's as close to a mother as Dean has ever known. Without another word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the roll Chuck gave him, slipping it to her under the cover of a flick of her thick mane of hair, so that the other girls and anyone else watching cannot see – never let anyone know just how much money you're carrying.

Her dark eyes sparkle with delight, and her smile is wide and brilliantly bright. "I'll see you later, then, baby bird, if you're still here," she says, patting his cheek with a soft palm before waving goodbye to the two other girls, strutting away back down Mary Boulevard and towards the motel Chuck always arranges for their meetings – 'Say what you want; the man is a gentleman'.

"So, _baby bird._ " That's the new girl speaking – Dean doesn't recognize her voice – and he turns to regard her coolly. Her ridiculous heels put her almost to his height, but without them she'd be maybe just over five feet, and he winces in sympathy at the thought of the pain she must have in her feet. "I haven't seen you around before."

He raises an eyebrow, smiling wide as he throws an arm around the last girl – one he knows, Magda's protégée – Becky. He knows she'll cover his story as long as he needs her to, because a friend of Magda's is a friend of Becky's and Dean's friend pays too well for them to be enemies. "I could say the same for you…?" He trails off, letting her missing name hang in the air.

She tosses back her dark hair with a huff, full lips painted purple and pouting. "Ruby," she says, and then hesitates. "… _Ruth._ "

Dean keeps his face smooth of anything other than understanding, though it takes him a moment to think past the slip-up – most girls on the streets don't care if you know their real name, since any real name could be just as fake and no one cares that they're here anymore – but then he remembers. Angels are fond of Biblical and religious names – Magda, for example. Dean's pretty sure her name wasn't that by birth, but he doesn't know Becky's Angel name. Ruby must have chosen Ruth as her Angel name, clearly marking her as one of _them_.

"So, Matthew," Becky says brightly, turning then on her six-inch black heels and planting her hand across Dean's chest, splayed wide, her thin and shivering body pressing tight to his side. "Am I yours for the night?" Her eyelashes flutter, her smile wide, teeth gleaming inside baby-pink painted lips, and Dean grins, reaching down to grab her ass just because he can.

"Let's just do the hour, sweetheart," he says, turning her and walking her towards one of the alleys. "I'd hate to rob you blind."

He can feel Ruby's glare on the back of his head as he rounds the corner, releasing Becky immediately once they're out of sight. "A new one?" Dean asks, frowning in confusion. "I thought the block couldn't handle any more – Christ, the three of you were standing around as it is!"

Becky bites her lower lip, shaking her head to force her dirty blonde hair to fall around her neck, covering some of her bare skin – Christ, she looks like she's freezing, and immediately Dean wraps his arms around her again, letting her soak up his body heat, though he does go tense and wince when her icy fingers dig under his shirt to flatten against his warm skin.

"There's been talk," she whispers into his neck, almost too softly to hear, "of spies. A double agent or something." Dean nods, sighing, and hurriedly presses his face into her hair, hand flattening across her bare thigh to pull her to him as the alleyway entrance is eclipsed by a passing stranger. Becky, to her credit, doesn't even stutter. "Can't tell which side he's actually on, though. Makes me nervous."

That makes Dean pause. "You've seen him?" he asks, eyes wide and voice low as he runs a hand through her hair, trying to touch her everywhere to warm her up – all of her skin is prickly with goose bumps.

She nods, huffing against his neck. "He's a little guy, hangs around with the big ones. They have high hopes for him, they say." Then, she sighs again. "He might not be out tonight – but look out for him. He's blue-eyed."

Dean snorts. "That all you can say about him?"

"He has very bright eyes. You'll notice."

And Dean swallows, thinking back to the blue-eyed man he had aided yesterday, and tries not to think too hard about what sort of thing that might mean, if a double agent had seen his face. He doesn't need people knowing where he is.

"You should be inside," he whispers to Becky, pushing her far enough away only to dig into his pocket for three of the twenties he was given, shoving them into her hand. "Go find a room for the night, or buy a coat. Please."

Her smile is shaky when she slips the folded bills into the cup of her bra. "You're a good man, Dean."

"Wait." As she turns to leave, he pulls her back and presses their lips together, running his hands through her hair and pulling the ends of her thin blouse out of the short skirt she'd tucked it into. He does his best to smear her lip gloss and ruffle her hair to make it look as convincing as possible – one can never be too careful of who's watching.

She kisses him back, because she knows the game and appearances are everything, but even so she's breathless when they pull apart, eyes wide and blackened and mouth kiss-swollen. Becky flashes him a smile, painstakingly running her fingers through her hair to make it look like she tried to straighten it back out, pulling her skirt down too far and only tucking her shirt back in half-way. It's an art form and Becky is the best artist he knows.

"Be safe," Dean whispers, kissing his fingers and then placing them to her cheek, before he allows her to go. He wipes his mouth on his forearm, grimacing at the taste of lip-gloss on his tongue when he licks his lips, and does his best to compose himself – hopefully by the time Dean's own catch comes along, both Ruby and Becky will be long gone and Dean can hunt his fill.

And if he happens to focus more on the blue-eyed men of the evening, well, it's no one's business but his own.


	3. Three

Gabriel, true to his word, does indeed pull up outside Castiel's apartment complex three hours later, and Castiel feels just a little bit proud of himself that not only did he manage to scarf down a healthy portion of oatmeal, potatoes and steak, he also is downstairs and out of the door before Gabriel can race his way up to Castiel's apartment and inevitably make a mess.

Castiel doesn't like messes.

"Little bro!" Gabriel crows in greeting, clapping him on the back and Castiel winces, hoping that Gabriel remembers not to do that for a while after tonight. Their car starts driving as soon as the door is shut and Gabriel quickly presses the dial that closes the little partition between driver and passengers. "So, we'll head to the studio, get the goods, and then it's off to the town!"

Castiel's brow furrows, though he is glad that Gabriel isn't trying to -. "Champagne?"

"You're not supposed to drink before getting a tattoo," Castiel replies with an arched eyebrow and a smile, earning himself a pout. "No, Gabriel. I like this shirt – I'm not going to bleed all over it because you thinned my blood with Devil's brew."

"Have it your way," the older man replies with a shrug, popping the cork and putting the opening of the bottle to his mouth, taking a loud slurp of the bubbly liquid.

"And," Castiel continues, "I'm pretty sure gunshot victims aren't meant to drink so soon either." Gabriel gives an unapologetic shrug and takes another drink. "I mean it, Gabriel – I'm rather fond of you, I'd rather you kept living."

"Spoilsport," Gabriel replies with a poke to Castiel's chest, taking one last drink before he opens a compartment in the side of the car and sticks the bottle back in, still open and condensing already. "I can't believe this is finally happening, though, Cas! Where's your excitement? I thought this was what you wanted."

"Of course it is," Castiel replies, as though the notion of wanting anything else is absurd. "That doesn't mean I'm not anticipating the sting of getting the tattoo, Gabe. Needles hurt."

"You and your needles," Gabriel says with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. "Dude, I've seen you get _stabbed._ If I promise to hold your hand will you promise to unclench and have a good time? We're gonna party, man – Mike can't make it, but Uriel and Raph and Luci and I think Samandriel are all meeting us at the docks. We're gonna get you a lap dance, and shots, and…" Gabriel's eyes are doing that dangerous thing, where they keep talking when his mouth falls silent and simply can't keep up.

"Gabriel." Castiel hesitates, then, shifting uncomfortably in place. While he knows it's not _that big a deal,_ and he certainly won't suffer any consequences from at least _saying_ it, it's still not something generally accepted in Angel circles and though he has known Gabriel a long time, considers the man to actually be a brother rather than just calling him one, he hesitates. "I…doubt you would be able to satisfy my…inclinations, at the docks." He grimaces at his own awkwardness – why can't he just come out and say it?

Gabriel's eyes are still doing that sparkling thing. His smile is sly. "Oh, little brother, why do you think I picked tonight?" He leans forward conspiratorially, even cupping his hand around his mouth to Castiel's ear like they're seven years old playing Chinese whispers; "There's been talk on the docks – a special someone for that kind of need." Then, he's leaning back, squeezing Castiel's shoulder affectionately. "Don't you worry, little brother, I'm gonna take real good care of you tonight."

And Castiel, despite the deep red flushing his face, manages a small 'Thank you'.

 

 

Dean watches, and waits, and it is almost midnight. A few cars have stopped by, slowing down past his alleyway but inevitably parking nearer to the strip joints and dance bars. A couple, though, have done the circle-round, a sign Dean recognizes as interest, lets him melt into the shadows of his alley so that the john can step out and approach him without giving themselves away as chasing men. When they come, and go, he moves alleys so that no two johns enter the same place or leave a discernible pattern.

Johns have a sixth sense, Dean thinks, when it comes to hookers. They can tell if another man's been standing in the exact same patch of alleyway before them. Makes them uneasy and uncomfortable – and, on occasion, rough and aggressive.

Dean shifts his weight, grimacing and swallowing hard at the ache in his ass and his neck. Well, at least he won't have to worry about stretching himself out anymore – his first of the night, a big guy with a big dick and a big fucking mouth, had made very sure that Dean felt every inch of him, shoving him against the wall hard enough to feel like half his face was being scraped off, whispering a lot of things to him that Dean supposes might sound hot in the right setting, but under the guise of john and whore it was just downright unnecessary. Embarrassing, almost.

He came in Dean's mouth. Almost made him taste it twice – fucking big dicks with their penchant for deep-throaters. His jaw still hurts just thinking about it.

Dean swallows, flexing his fingers, and fixes his eyes on another car slowly inching itself down the street, on his side of the road, windows tinted out and rolled all the way up. It passes by his alleyway and he sighs, about to turn his gaze away, but then the car stops, just past him, and the door towards the street is flung open, and out of it unfolds a small, golden-haired man that Dean vaguely recognizes, feels like he knows.

He doesn't like knowing that he knows someone without actually knowing who that someone _is,_ but when the man turns around and looks right at him, Dean's eyes widen in recognition.

The feeling, it seems, is not mutual. "Hey," the man calls, still looking right at him, and he's talking too loud and Dean wants to take a step back and melt away because _that is not how things are done around here._ "What's your rate?"

Dean blinks, looking back and forth but it seems like the street has left him alone for now – there are no cars coming and no whores on the pavement, at least not within sight. "Fifty for a blowjob, one hundred for more," he replies, keeping his voice light because hey, guy's a payin' customer. Ought to show him the same courtesy as everyone else even if he's not that _subtle._

"Great," the man replies, drumming his nails against the top of the car once and then closing his door. "Get in."

Dean raises his eyebrows in confusion, but the man is already walking away, towards one of the strip clubs, and as Dean watches the driver rolls up both of his windows and Dean can't see anything inside of the car.

He approaches slowly, warily – maybe the guy is a business man, owns the club or something and is coming back for Dean and doesn't want to be seen with him. Maybe he's got a woman inside who needs male company that isn't his own. Maybe…

Only one way to find out.

He opens the door that faces the pavement, and peers inside.

"You."

It is whispered by the man inside, a pair of brilliant blue eyes spearing him where he stands, for a moment, before Dean lets out a breath and climbs into the car. It's one of those fancy cars, with seating all around and a partition blocking them from the driver and what looks to be a minibar in the back, and the seats are comfortable and the air is warm.

"Your buddy seems to have recovered well," Dean says, rubbing his palms on his thighs – they're starting to sweat and he's shivering and he's not sure why. The guy is just staring at him like Dean sprouted three extra heads and like the air is slowly being sucked out of the room.

"I…" Then, those eyes aren't on Dean's face anymore, but raking down him in a gesture that Dean finds incredibly familiar – it almost makes him smile, how much like clockwork this job is. How…unsurprising. "He has a habit of being thrown back from the dead. I don't think they'd like him there."

Dean huffs out a surprised laugh, tilting his head at the comment. "So…" Blue eyes flash back to his face, and for a moment Dean remembers Becky's words – _he has very bright eyes. You'll notice._ And, yeah, they're kind of mesmerizing, really, and very blue, and -. "I assume I'm yours for the time being."

His tongue comes out to lick his lips, and Dean wants to lick at his neck when he swallows. "Yes, it would seem so," he replies, and swallows again, curling his fingers into the leather seat on either side of his legs.

Dean raises an eyebrow. This man seems so different from the breathless guy who'd pointed a gun at Dean with no shake to his hand. He almost looks _nervous._ "Dude, unclench," Dean replies, gesturing towards the guy with a small smile. "You're twitchier than Jesus in a whorehouse."

"I assure you, Jesus was very calm around whores," the man replies without missing a beat and it startles a laugh out of Dean. "I didn't think I would be able to find satisfaction tonight. You were a, ah, surprise, shall we say."

_Oh._ Dean hums in understanding, drumming his fingers against the top of his leg. He feels like he could talk to the guy all day, but time is money, and his brother is probably waiting for him to finish up in here and join them for the party.

Still, talking to him seems to be making him relax, and if Dean can do anything, it's make people relax. "What are you guys out celebrating?" he asks, sliding down to the spacious floor of the car – there is enough room between the back seat and the partition for him to comfortably kneel, and while the man's eyes widen, he says nothing about it, and his legs spread a little farther apart in readiness.

"I…" Castiel swallows as Dean's hand flatten out across his thighs, surprisingly warm despite his undoubtedly long time in the cold outside, fingertips still chilly, running up and down his thighs and there's a warm smile on the kneeling man's face and Castiel's shoulders go tense – he winces at the pull on sensitive skin. "I got my wings tonight."

Anyone who knows anything about Angels on the docks will know how big a deal that is, and Castiel can't help but preen just a little bit at the suitably impressed look on the other man's face – weird, he thinks, that he cares that a streetwalker is impressed by him, but then that thought flies away as the man's fingers move to his belt, efficient with the fastenings but somehow still managing to make that one move – unbuckling Castiel's belt and unbuttoning his slacks enough to free his growing erection – somehow slow, erotic, tension building in the warm air of the car.

"Dude," Dean breathes out, smiling wide. "That's awesome."

And it is. Dean's loyalties are about a thousand shades of grey, but there is one thing he cannot deny – the Angels have their system right. His father's organization, yeah, it's powerful and they keep it in the family, but that's just the problem. If you're the son of a good friend, yeah, you can get a place there, but if you're useless, you're still the _son of a friend._ It leads to weakness.

The Angels have to fight their way in, and earn their place. Whatever this guy did, it was enough to get him marked with the symbol of the gang, and that's a big fucking deal – it's something worth being impressed over.

"I'll go easy on you, then," he adds, throwing in a wink that makes the guy huff and smile lopsidedly, and then Dean cannot talk anymore, because he has the guy's erection free, warm and hard in his hand, and he needs to start earning his keep here.

The man lets out a satisfying little sigh when Dean sinks down on him, sore throat working to swallow and he has to wrap his hand around what he can't fit – the angle is awkward and soon he'll have to kneel up to get all of the john in his mouth, but right now he seems pretty content to let Dean's lips wrap tight around the head, sucking as hard as he can just to feel him shiver.

He braces his free hand against the seat of the car, moving up to allow himself to take more into his mouth. Dean closes his eyes when he feels a hand go to his hair, fingers, long and warm, clenching tight in his hair, forcing his head down, cock sliding deeper into his mouth. He opens his mouth wider, breathes around the length when it withdraws and inhales greedily through his nose, and lets the john go to work on him.

_Fuck_. It had obviously been far too long for Castiel, if the first feel of a warm mouth clenching around him is enough to have him already fighting the urge to shoot off. Still, he can't deny that the other man knows exactly what he's doing with his mouth, rough of his tongue scraping down the shaft of Castiel's cock, cushioning the pressure of his teeth, throat warm and tight and clenching when Castiel pushes too far.

It hurts his shoulders – still aching and sore – when he throws his head back, biting his free fist to keep himself quiet, because even though he knows the driver has no illusions as to what's happening back here, the poor man doesn't need to be _hearing_ it.

But then, fuck, the man's hands are digging under his thighs, spreading him farther apart, and he's sinking down almost to the base, so warm and tight, and Castiel's hand clenches tighter in his hair – it's impossible not to. He knows he should probably gentle up, or he could hurt the guy, but _fuck_ , it's insane, how good this feels, and he can tell that the man's looking at him when he rises back up, too-green eyes flashing darkly in the light of the car that's faded now that the doors are closed, so only a small amount of light is getting in from the outside, but Castiel knows that it'll be enough for him to see the man's face, the gorgeous thick mouth stretching wide around his cock, and fuck, _fuck -_.

" _Fuck,_ " he hisses, entire body curling forward around the man's head as he grips him tight, coming down his throat. He tries, really tries, to make sure he's not gripping too hard, but it's honestly hard to tell with the white going off behind his eyes, numbing his fingers and the tips of his toes.

When he manages to get control of himself again, he's quick to release the other man, settling back hard enough against the seat that it jolts his back and he winces. The hooker is breathing deeply, but not unevenly so Castiel's figures he can't be too out of breath, resting his forehead against Castiel's thigh as he recovers, before he coughs, clearing his throat and settling back onto the balls of his feet.

His hands are sweaty when he rubs them on the material on his thighs, swallowing roughly to try and catch his own breath, and he looks up to find the man's eyes trained on his face, focused and expectant. Castiel flushes, tucking himself back in before he reaches for his wallet.

He's not sure what the man's rate is, but most of the whores on the docks charge for the same thing; he throws a hundred at the man, putting his wallet away. "Keep the change," he says before the man can ask, and he's gifted with a small smile and another wink.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he replies, accent too south for the area slipping through, before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have a good party, and I'll see you around."

"Wait." Dean's stepping out of the car, and Castiel reaches forward to just catch his wrist, turning him around before he can melt back into the shadows of the alleyway and wait for his next john. Dean frowns a little, eyes flicking upward to scan the street, but there is still no one outside except for a man throwing up outside of a strip club down the road, so he figures he's safe. "How often are you here?"

Dean shrugs one shoulder, pursing his lips as he pretends to think. "Not often enough to call it habit, sweetheart, sorry." But the guy's looking at him so…Goddamn _earnestly_ , and Dean can't figure that out. Already he's seen him two too many times, and if Becky's right and there's some blue-eyed guy playing doubles for both the Angels and his dad, well, fuck, he can't afford to make a friend right now. "Listen," he says, relenting, "there's a woman who works here – dark skin, red hair, you can't miss her. Goes by the name of Magda. If you ask her, she'll be able to tell you if I'm here or not, so you're not wasting your time."

The guy nods, licking his lips and leaning back. He releases Dean's arm and that helps him relax. "Who do I ask for?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I'm the only guy on the block," he replies. "That narrows it down."

"Please." His eyes are so wide, and it's ridiculous how pretty he is, and Dean's really gonna fucking regret this but -. "Give me a name."

He sighs again, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and has a moment to think. Johns willing to come back for repeat performances more than once, maybe twice a month are hard to come by, and Dean would be lying to himself if he said he didn't need the money. He doesn't want to have to dip into Sam's bank account until he absolutely has to, and he can't stay at Chuck's forever.

The guy's already proven himself to be a big spender, and Dean might know this is an epically bad idea, but he really doesn't have that many options.

Besides, he'd be telling another lie if he said the guy was unattractive, and didn't have other…assets to his name. Just because he's an Angel doesn't mean he's a _bad guy._ And just because Dean was born an Eagle doesn't mean he has any loyalties to that gang aside from what he owes to his brother.

"Dean," he finally says, letting out his breath with a heavy sigh. "My name's Dean."

The man's face melts into a smile – a big one, that shows teeth, and Dean flushes a little at the warmth that that smile makes settle in his stomach. "Castiel," the man replies, and Dean nods – his own Angel name, and a distinctive one. Never even heard of that Angel before.

"I'll see you around, then, Castiel," he replies, raising his hand to the man before he turns and walks away, and he hears the car door close and the vehicle crawls down to park in one of the many lots adjoining the strip clubs and the bars – on to his own party.

It occurs to Dean, then, that perhaps he should have given his own Angel name, or at least a different one – Matthew, maybe, as Becky knows him, or even _baby bird_. Something other than his own name.

But then he sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. It's hardly like it matters. No one knows the name Dean Winchester anymore, and even if they did, they don't know his face.

He's tired.

Chuck, bless his soul, has remembered to keep the padlock undone for the lot, so Dean can slip his way in and close it behind him. The lot is dark and quiet and Dean quickly moves around the cold shells of the cars, almost blind in the darkness, feeling his way to the door of the trailer and quietly making his way inside. The door handle is slippery and wet under his touch and he grimaces at the slick feeling of what must be rain or oil against his fingers.

There isn't a bed inside so much as a palette of blankets and pillows and, gratefully, reeking of sex and cigarettes, he collapses on the palette. Sleep claims him about two minutes later, and he spends the night dreaming of black-winged Angels with bullet holes through their heads.

 

 

"Your son has been making quite a spectacle of himself."

John Winchester raises an eyebrow, folding the paper down in front of him to look upon the face of his good friend and second-in-command. "How so?" he asks, with the air of someone who already knows what he's about to hear of and has already decided that he doesn't care.

"Bending over for sailors on the docks," comes the reply.

Another fold of the newspaper, this time caused by fingers gripping tight, white-knuckling the fragile fabric until it crinkles in John's hands. "I only have one son," he replies, slowly and too calmly. "And he is happily engaged. To a woman."

A snort. "You need to rein in your bitch, John," comes the reply, the man sauntering forward and settling himself in the chair opposite John on the other side of his desk, leaning back enough that he can prop his feet up on the expensive wood. "Face is everything, and your boy is covering yours in sailor spunk. It's…" He waves a hand in the air, trying to think of the word. "Unseemly."

"And what would you have me do?" John asks, raising his eyebrow again at the other man. "Azazel, the boy is less than nothing to me or the Winchester name, now. Hardly anyone knows of my little faggot roaming the streets." He snorts. "Truth be told, I thought he was dead."

"And bringing men back to life for fifty bucks a pop," Azazel replies, voice dripping with distaste. "It only takes one bad apple, John, to spoil the whole bunch. One rotten seed." He removes his feet from the desk, then, straightening in his seat. "You need to send him a message. Alistair told me that he was seen near your bank the day those feather-heads robbed us. Who's to say he's not in league with them?"

John presses his lips together, and says nothing.

"Working the streets with Angels – dropping to his knees for those God-fearing scum." Azazel leans back, then, venom and triumph etched into his smile. "Maybe someone's loyalties aren't towards Daddy anymore."

John sighs, carefully folding his newspaper into quarters and laying it down on the desk between the two men, before settling back on his chair, folded hands resting on his stomach. "And what would you believe would be the best course of action?"

"Send him a message," Azazel hisses, eyes flashing. "He may not be one of us anymore, but I'll be _damned_ if I let him sully the good name of this organization with this…lifestyle," He bites out of the word, "of his. He _knows_ things, John – important things, about how we – how _you_ – run this place, and that information…in the wrong hands…?" He leans back again, shrugging his shoulders and raising his hands in a helpless gesture. "Who knows what could happen?"

John sighs, frowning to himself. It is strange, how his son managed to visit the street rat who shares his blood, and the bank was robbed within that week. Perhaps Sam worked it out too – maybe he's already a few steps ahead of his old man. His eyes flash to his second, careful and calculating, and the man bears his gaze unwaveringly. "We will send a message," he says slowly, making the other man smile. "Let it be known – whoever helps Dean will suffer for it." He pauses again. "Don't make it subtle, Azazel. I want him to know exactly who is after him."

"Of course, Sir," Azazel replies with a big smile, getting to his feet. "I'll have him groveling by the end of the month, just you wait and see."

 

 

Dean jerks awake at the sound of the trailer door being, what sounds like, hammered into oblivion by the relentless pounding of a fist against the door. He groans, shifting and wincing at the ache in his ass and thighs, and the crick from the awkward tilt of his neck, before shoving himself to his feet. He's still fully clothed and feels gross, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, jeans sticky and stiff from old lube and spunk against his legs.

Someone is calling his name, in time to the pounding of the door which isn't just the harsh beating in his head that signals the approach of an oncoming headache, and Dean grimaces again, feeling like he's about two seconds from throwing up. He needs to eat something – he's gone too long without proper food, unwilling to spend more money than what was necessary – but, before any of that, he needs to find out who the fuck is banging the door down.

It opens just as he approaches, blinding him with sunlight streaking in from outside, and silhouetting the figure of Chuck – breathless, wild-eyed Chuck who's clutching at his old and ratty bathrobe like a lifeline and still panting out Dean's name, like he'd come running.

"Dean, Dean – what the Hell happened here?"

"What?" He doesn't understand, doesn't know the reason for the panic in Chuck's eyes but it puts him immediately on the defense, shoulders tensing up tightly and drawing in. Had something happened last night? Had people broken into the lot and he'd been so exhausted that he'd just slept through it? God, he hopes not.

"The cars! And the… The…" Chuck can't even finish the sentence and without a word Dean pushes him to one side, wincing and blinking his eyes rapidly to try and adjust them to the light so that he can see.

"Oh, _fuck._ "

Almost every window of every car in the lot has been smashed to pieces, windshields lying in halves and quarters across the ground except for one path – the path that Dean had taken down the middle – which is still clear and would not crunch underfoot. Dean stumbles out of the trailer, looking around with wide eyes at the damage, at the shatter marks and shards of glass littering the floor, the burned-out and disconnected headlights, the popped hoods and – he snarls – the pentagram surrounded by a sun keyed into each and every car.

The sign of the Eagles. A sign given to each and every Eagle on their eighteenth birthday, that Dean, when he was thrown out and disowned by his family, had scarred out of his own chest to remove himself of all ties to that sigil.

"God fucking damn it," he growls, anger rising up in him. They have no right – _no fucking right_ – to come to his place of work, to destroy all these cars, and -.

He turns around, eyes widening when he sees what they've painted on the trailer door. The word _'Whore',_ in bright red letters, circle 'O' surrounding the door with the flaming pentagram in the middle of that as well. He looks down at his fingers, crust of red paint flaking on his fingertips.

Son of a bitch. It had still been _wet_ … They must have seen him come back here, must have done all this damage under the cover of night so that he wouldn't have been able to see, would know how that they were watching but not knowing when or how they had done this…

Chuck is still standing in the door of the trailer, looking nervous and afraid, and Dean sighs, shoulders slumping. "Look, Chuck, I…" What can he say? "I'll pay for the damage. I'll…I'll clean this off, and -."

"Dean." Chuck sounds tired, and worried, scurrying down the steps and coming to stand in front of Dean. "Don't worry about that. Just…just be careful, alright?" He casts a nervous glance around, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "I'd hate for something to happen to you just 'cause of…you know, my habits."

It takes Dean a moment, looking down at the small man with a frown on his face, before he realizes. Chuck must think someone had seen him at the docks, and assumed he was there to sell instead of just give Magda money. Well…well, there's no harm in Chuck thinking that. Let him think that. Yeah. Probably safer that way.

He forces a smile to his face, and he can't imagine how fake and strained it must look. "Well, that works both ways, man," he says slowly, haltingly, swallowing loud as he looks around the lot again. The sun is bright in the sky but it's still only seven in the morning, maybe – they have about an hour before the first return is due to roll in. "I'll start cleaning this straight away. You got some buckets, a sponge and a broom?"

"Um, of course…" Then Chuck is tripping over himself to return to the trailer and gather the necessary supplies to begin cleaning up the lot from the broken glass and the paint on the trailer, and Dean curses under his breath again, glaring out towards the abandoned warehouses and boarded-up residential homes that make up most of the buildings on this street. For good measure, just in case, he throws his middle finger up into the air, biting out another swear when he turns to go help Chuck get what he needs, fingers clenching tight to his sides.

Un-fucking-called for. _Petty_ , that's what this is. Bad enough his father decides to throw him out and cut him off, but to actually go after him? What the actual fuck do people think he's doing out here?

The thought makes him pause, biting his lip in thought. If Becky is right, and there's a double agent out there either working for his father or working for the Angels or both (who knows what kind of crazy sons of bitches try and play doubles), then, well, a new Angel would be enough to draw attention from either side. Perhaps he wasn't as cautious and observant as he'd thought. Hell, it's been a few years, maybe one of his more repetitive johns is an Eagle or Angel himself and Dean just never saw the tattoos because who the fuck takes their clothes off for a whore?

He slams his fist against his own thigh, cursing his own stupidity. A new, blue-eyed Angel who'd wanted to know his name, know when he'd be here. _Fuck_ , how could he have been so stupid? One pretty face has him swooning, risking people's _lives_.

"God damn it," he growls to himself, punching his own leg again. _God fucking damn it._

One thing is for certain – he has to move. Soon. But he can't without making a plan, first. His dad taught him to always have a plan, and the man's methodology and moral compass might be a bit off, but Dean's tactical training has never failed him before.

He forces his mind to focus on the things he'll need to do now, and not immerse himself in anger as he takes the bucket and fresh, soapy water from Chuck, puts the sponge to the cheap aluminum trailer and starts to clean off the red paint. If someone's after him, he'll need to buy some kind of method to protect both Chuck and himself. For that he'll need money – for what he wants, it'll take two or three withdrawals from Sam's account plus the money he'd earned last night to buy a decent nine-mil, and then the bullets themselves…

"Fuck," he hisses, wincing when the glass underfoot cracks under the soles of his worn-down boots. Not piercing through – not yet, but soon he'll have to either trade them in or try and acquire some new shoes. He'll need to move from Chuck's lot, because he'll be damned if Chuck gets hurt just 'cause he was doing Dean a solid and letting him have a roof over his head for the night.

There are homeless shelters in this city, but Dean would rather sleep in a cardboard box – too many spies and too many mouths and eyes easily bought on the streets for him to be safe there, and in his condition he's just as likely to contract something as die from a bullet hole in his head.

His stomach rumbles, and he feels nauseous. The water in the bucket is tingeing with red.  It can't be a coincidence – that he would meet the new john, the new Angel named Castiel, on the same night as this happens. No, that guy must be bad news, because Dean's seen him two times too many already and repetition is a dangerous thing in this city. Someone can get killed by stepping in the same place twice.

He throws the soaking sponge back into the bucket when the trailer is mostly clean, and walks along the edge of the lot, following the chain-link fence, to where there is one single, sad-looking broom propped up against a corner of the lot. He takes it, tutting at the thin and few bristles lining the edge, and begins to sweep all the glass into one pile.

His route takes him next to the Impala, still sitting on top of four cement bricks, and he sighs, tracing his first finger over the sharp, fraying edges of the keyed-in design, the Eagles' sigil. _Poor thing_ , he thinks, patting the car's bonnet affectionately, _you didn't deserve this._

Maybe Sam had something to do with it.

The thought makes him pause, staring at the small pile of glass he had collected from around the Impala's carcass, his lips pursing out in thought, before he shakes his head and forces the thought away. No, Sam wouldn't do that to him, surely – he, God damn it, he _wanted_ Dean to be at his wedding, right? Made an effort to reach out to his brother?

Maybe their father made him. Maybe it was a test.

_Stop it_ , he scolds himself, shaking off the thoughts that feel like they're settling, heavy weights on his shoulders and in the base of his neck and he can't get rid of them. Someone's playing for both teams, sure, but it doesn't matter – he doesn't _care_. He needs to look after himself, and make sure no one goes after Chuck because the guy doesn't deserve jack shit from any of these big players in this city. They can all go to Hell.

 

 

"Castiel! Castiel! Castiel Castiel – get up!"

"I am actually going to kill you."

"Nah, c'mon little bro, we got ourselves an assignment."

Castiel grimaces, rolling over onto his back and hissing at the sting along his shoulders, the sheets dragging across his recent tattoo and creating a subtle burn along his spine. It's been a few days but the skin is still tender and sore and if Gabriel would stop clapping him on the back every time they see each other Castiel is pretty sure it would be healed up by now – as it is, he's stuck with Gabriel singing his name to the tune of _Vindaloo_ , and Castiel might actually kill him.

He can't even find it in himself to be surprised that Gabriel managed to get into his apartment while he was sleeping. He barely restrains himself, with a mental reminder that two gunshots in two weeks might not be good for Gabriel, and has to remind himself that he's actually pretty fond of his older brother, before he sits up with a heavy sigh, digging his fingertips into his cheeks on either side of his nose. "Yeah, alright – what's the assignment?"

Gabriel's eyes are doing that dangerous glow again, and he's smiling wide, shoving himself up from Castiel's bed. "Come on, get dressed – I made coffee. We'll talk over breakfast. You know that recent cute little French place they were renovating around the corner? It's reopened, and -."

Castiel tunes out his big brother's nattering, dragging himself out of bed and slipping on a thin grey t-shirt with an open black button-down over that, putting on his socks and jeans and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. It's his day off, and Gabriel is dressed in a similar casual style, so he figures he doesn't have to put on the usual monkey suit today. He rolls his shoulders, smiling just a little at the now-familiar burn, reminding him that, yes, he's an Angel now. A real one.

Gabriel is still talking when Castiel removes himself from his bedroom, pouring himself a small cup of black coffee and pouring enough milk into it that it's cool enough to drink straight away, tossing it back like a shot. The placebo effect takes place almost immediately, and even as he blinks at the foul taste he can feel himself perking up.

He jingles his keys to get his brother's attention, finally bringing Gabriel to a silence. "Well? Shall we?" he asks with a small, bemused smile, as Gabriel's eyes light up again and he gleefully leads the way out of Castiel's apartment, only pausing enough for Castiel to lock the door behind them, before they're trotting down the corridor and down the stairs (because Gabriel hates elevators) and to the pleasantly cool outside.

"So, what's the assignment?" Castiel asks again once they are comfortably seated with coffee on the way – Americano for Castiel, gingerbread latte for Gabriel – and Castiel is absently picking at a _pain au chocolat_.

Gabriel's eyes are still doing that dangerous glowing thing, and he's grinning wide, looking Castiel up and down. "It appears," he says, leaning forward conspiratorially and Castiel cannot help but he drawn in also, leaning close, "that there is an Eagle among us."

The younger man's eyebrows shoot up, and he sits back with a low exhale. "No," he says, shaking his head for a moment, brow furrowing. "No, that's impossible…isn't it?"

Gabriel nods his head, pursing his lips. "You'd think so. Unfortunately, everyone can be bought. Now, Cas -." Abruptly Gabriel's face loses its humor, becomes serious and solemn and he's resting a hand on the table to catch Castiel's attention. "I am telling you this for a very specific reason, and it is because out of everyone in this organization, you are the newest."

Castiel doesn't reply; merely tilts his head to one side.

"You are the newest," Gabriel repeats, "and because of that, you are the least biased. You are also one of the most natural talents I have ever had the honor to oversee, and that's another reason I chose to tell you, and not another of my fledglings."

"You flatter me, Gabriel," Castiel replies, affected by his friend and brother's solemnity, eyes lowering. "But what exactly is it that you want me to do?"

Gabriel sighs. "Our organization is vast, but we only have one figurehead. Michael oversees and gives the final word on many things, but one of our greatest assets is also one of our greatest potential weaknesses – and that is our independence. Oftentimes one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing, and unless someone reports directly to Michael, things can slip through the cracks. We need to self-regulate, self-enforce." He sits back, then, pausing when the waitress comes with their coffee, and he flashes a small smile that she returns before scuttling away. "Because you do not know that many people in this organization, to you everyone will be suspect and that is your biggest advantage now. Trust no one, and find the Eagle – if there is one, I have no doubt that your keen senses will sniff him out."

"Gabriel," Castiel gasps, eyes widening in understanding, food and coffee forgotten, "are you suggesting I go rogue on our own kind?"

His older brother's eyes are no longer glowing – there is a set to his mouth that betrays just how serious he is. "I mean every word, Castiel – you will not be alone, and if you are caught and tried I will speak for you, of course, and say that you were under my direct order. I may not be an Archangel, but I hold sway with our fearless leader and I would not throw you to the wolves without aid." He leans forward again, lowering his voice because people are starting to stare and it's making Castiel's neck prickle, like in the vault of the Eagles' bank. "I suggest that you make a friend outside of this organization, though, if you are to do this the safest way."

Castiel's eyes narrow. "If everyone is suspect," he says slowly, tasting the words and choosing them carefully before their release, "then should I suspect you as well?"

Gabriel is smiling when he sits back. "You are an excellent judge of character, Castiel," he says. "Would you trust me?"

"If I did not know you," Castiel replies, "then no, I would not."

And Gabriel nods, sipping at his latte with a satisfied smile. "Good. That's good."

He doesn't say anything else after that, and Castiel slowly picks up his own coffee, taking a sip. It's a pretty good blend – he'll have to ask the waitress if he can get a bag for his own home – but it's doing nothing to settle his stomach. _Find a friend,_ Gabriel had said. Well, Castiel might belong to the biggest family in the North, but his pool of friends that are not family is pretty damn small.

Unbidden, a flash of green eyes and pale skin skips across his mind's eye, mouth smiling and too-southern laugh in his ear. It's a ridiculous concept, and one he determinedly pushes aside, but the thought comes back, again and again, stupid and stubborn and altogether ridiculous.

His mouth twists, and he takes another sip. But.

 

 

Dean has to admit, the hefty weight of three hundred dollars in his pocket and a decent meal in his stomach makes him feel pretty damn good. He even splurges on a nice dinner for Chuck as well, because the poor guy looks pretty shaken up and their takings from today won't even begin to cover the damage done to the cars. He feels dirty, and a little ashamed, dipping into Sam's account so early after being offered the gift – his pride rebelled every step of the way to the ATM and every moment since, but desperate times and all that.

"I need a place," he finally says, when the two of them are sitting together and killing time before Chuck goes home and Dean goes to sleep, "to buy a gun. A nameless place. Know anywhere like that?"

Chuck lifts one shoulder in a helpless shrug, tugging the halves of his bathrobe closer around himself. "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm just not into the kind of circles you are." The words make Dean flush a little, guiltily – Chuck doesn't know much about Dean's past or his family, but he's got a keen eye for people and he can tell when a customer's gonna trash the junker he rents or return it in pretty decent condition, so Dean must be like an open book to him.

"Yeah," the younger man replies, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Figured."

"I did find a guy that would be willing to take you in, though," Chuck says, brightening up suddenly when he remembers. "I almost forgot – here." He reaches deep into the pocket of his robe, pulling out a dirty and well-folded piece of paper that he hands to Dean. Unfolding the paper, Dean finds an address and the name _'Bobby Singer'_ scrawled across the inside. "I told him you were a good worker and no trouble, and he said as long as you kept out of the way and didn't mind it getting cold sometimes you were welcome to stay."

Dean wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. "I don't deserve this," he says, but folds up the piece of paper and tucks it into the back of his jeans. "After what happened – Chuck, I am so sorry about the cars. I'll get the money to pay you back, I promise."

Chuck smiles, shaking his head as he laughs – a wheezy laugh through his teeth. "Dean, seriously, don't worry about it. You think this is the first time someone's trashed the place? I'll be fine. I'm always fine."

And Dean swallows, and doesn't say anything else – because this time is different. This wasn't just a random group of tanked kids deciding to smash some glass – this was personal, designed and intended to get to Dean and poor Chuck had been caught in the crossfire, and it wasn't fair. To either of them. Dean swallows again – he will get the money to pay Chuck back, even if he has to level Sam's bank account and sell his ass to every Tom, Dick and Harry to so much as smile at him. He'll do it.

Chuck abruptly pushes himself to his feet with a sigh, toes curling on the step leading to the trailer. "Well, good night, Dean. I'll see you tomorrow," he says with a small smile and a wave of his hand, carefully treading down the main path to the gate again, because Dean had swept up most of the glass but they'd had returns at the same time and it is altogether too possible that there is still glass embedded in the ground capable of slicing Chuck's feet up through his slippers, and Dean doesn't move until he hears the jingling of the chains on the gate and the loud click that means Chuck's locked them in place.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and shoves himself upright, heading back into the trailer. His shoulders and arms hurt from the cars and from cleaning all day, and his thighs never did quite get their ideal recovery period. He doesn't so much go to bed as he does collapse on the pile of blankets that serves as one, sleep claiming him almost immediately, even if his dreams are restless and he wakes up more times in the night than he can count.

 

 

"I _asked_ you nicely."

The man grunts, spitting out a gross mesh of blood and saliva onto the wall, his hands braced tightly against the worn wallpaper-littered surface, desperate to push back or fight back, but the muzzle tucked tight to the bottom of his skull is deterrent enough.

"Nice," he hisses, baring bloody teeth. "There ain't no nice askin' from you, little sparrow."

The man's stomach clenches at the low, rolling laugh. Beasts make that kind of laugh, not men. "So, you know who I am," the voice replies, coming closer, and there is a soft snapping sound and the gun pressed to the back of Henricksen's head moves away, leaving almost burning warmth behind where there had only been the cool metal of the gun. A hand curls around his shoulder, flinging him around so that he's braced by his shoulders against the wall, the giant man he had come home to find grinning wide at him, all friendly-like. "That, hopefully, means that you'll know your silence isn't worth your life."

Henricksen's eyes narrow, his lips curling back again. "I don't _know_ where the little whore's gone," he hisses, making the larger man's eyes narrow. Perhaps the wrong word to choose, but he can't take it back now. Not where the sparrow's lips are thinning out and he's looking over his shoulder to the stunt man that had been holding his gun. "I can tell you where he works, but that's it."

"Hmm, no," Sam replies, straightening and pulling at the cuffs of his jacket. He looks entirely too put together for his own good, Victor thinks. Like a china plate headed for the floor. "I know where he works. I _knew_ where he lived." Without another word, his back is turned again, and he's headed for the door. "Waste 'im."

Victor's eyes widen, and the silenced gun promises a quick and quiet death. Sam's mouth is still thinned out in anger and frustration when he awaits his second guard, the first one having joined him in the hall. When the second man comes out, courteously closing the door behind him, Sam jerks his head for them to move to follow him and wordlessly they make their way down the corridor and out of the building.

So, Dean has moved on. Sam had noticed the ATM withdrawals, maxed out, but Dean is being smart about it – never taking from the same bank twice, at least not long enough to guess where he's gonna be next, not enough for Sam to find a pattern from him. He knows he shouldn't be surprised – after all, Dean is just as deadly and well-trained as he is – but he does find it in himself to be proud that Dean had not gotten complacent. It will be a few kind words to whisper into his father's ear.

Still, the fact that he cannot find his brother anymore distresses him. Dean isn't meant to be able to just disappear – what was the point of owning the streets when he couldn't find a single rat on them? It's downright disgraceful, is what it is. A true shame.

His gut clenches at the idea of just _why_ Dean is suddenly so unreachable. Sam cannot find it in himself to believe that Dean is dead – if he were, Sam is sure that he would have known about it. Hell, their father may have even decided to throw a party if the purest shame on his household were to cease to exist. No, Dean has either gotten incredibly smart, or incredibly stupid, or sold his soul away to the Angels. Sam had known Dean frequented the docks, but he cannot dare to think that it might be for any other reason than wine, women and song. Or something close to that, as the case may be. The idea that Dean might be getting into bed with the enemy makes him feel sick, sick to his stomach, because Dean is many things but he is _not_ disloyal. He's like a dog – kicked, abused, beaten, but his tail still wags when his master comes home.

Sam straightens his shoulders, clearing his throat when he approaches his car and slides into the back seat. "Take me home," he orders to the driver when his two guards slide into place on either side of him – the area is cramped but Sam knows that it is at his father's insistence, and he would rather have both burly men protecting him than no one. He has never shared Dean's cavalier attitude towards his own life – Dean could die in a gutter and no one would care, but Sam…Sam can change this city. He will.

He'll prove it. To everyone.

 


	4. Four

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me, Chuck, really?"

Dean looks down at the crumpled, off-white piece of paper in his hands, wrinkled and worn down on the edges, and double checks the address. Nope, this is definitely it; definitely the place Chuck sent him to for a new roof over his head. Dean will continue to pay back Chuck any way he can, essentially working for free on the cars and giving his boss any money he can scrape from Sam and from his nights on the docks to pay for the damage and only keeping enough to feed and clothe him.

Wiping his hand over his mouth, Dean sticks the paper into his back pocket, sighing, and shoulders his pathetic duffle that contains all of his worldly possessions, head bowed as he treks inside of the building. It is cooler on the inside than in the direct sunlight outsight, the air crisp and old like an ancient, untouched library. The walls are made of dark stone, building surging backwards and then out to either side, finishing with a point on the far end.

It's a church. Dean feels about as out of place here as he ever has anywhere else. To the left-hand side is a small cubicle-like office, boasting fliers containing events happening within the church's community, and a very small shop with rosaries and statuettes and icons glinting gold and polished wood. Beside that are two tiers of candles in various stages of being lit and burning out, small donation box welded to the front of each.

Dean's mouth twists, dark eyes scanning the rest of the place. The building is shaped like a cross, rows of pews stretching forward until they come to the center of the building and there is a square-shaped void in the middle with naught but a giant, white stone altar draped with a white sheet. A single red cross on the edge of the sheet, facing Dean, is the only thing to mar the perfect cleanliness of the church. Despite its size and relative emptiness, it looks almost obsessively clean, stained-glass windows gleaming brightly and casting cheery colored images onto the floor as Dean walks in.

For lack of anything else to do, Dean goes to one of the pews and sits, duffle placed on the floor by his feet. He hasn't gone to a church since he was very young – his father had tried to stick to the traditions Dean and Sam's mother had lived by, wanted to do right by her memory, but pretty soon the family business had taken over and faith and God were representatives of the enemy.

Carefully and slowly, mindful of the car grease staining his fingers and the general out-of-place feeling he has, Dean leans forward and gently plucks one of the little red books from the shelf on the back of the pew in front of him. This church is Roman Catholic, golden _Vatican II_ embossed on the edge of it, and Dean almost drops the book when the door behind him opens.

He shoves himself to his feet, feeling like he has been caught doing something he shouldn't, flustered an on edge when a petite, pale girl opens the door fully, and allowing the figure of a wheel-chair-bound man to roll inside of the building.

The man stops when he sees Dean, raising one eyebrow high enough that the grey hairs disappear into the shadow of his cap. "Can I help you with somethin'?" he asks, gruff but friendly enough and something about him reminds Dean weirdly of his father, but in a way that doesn't make him nervous or angry.

"I'm lookin' for Bobby Singer," Dean replies, eyes darting between the man and the young girl – they don't look enough alike to be related, the girl with short-cropped hair dyed with flashes of odd colors in her fringe, the rest a dark brown to match the color of her eyes and stand out against the paleness of her skin. And the man looks like he's spent half of his life in an office and the other half under the hood of a car – he has the look of a laborer about him, despite his physical state. Dean has an eye for that sort of thing.

The other eyebrow joins its brother. "Well, you're lookin' right at 'im," the man says, wheeling forward and up to Dean. "Are you are…?"

Dean clears his throat, forcing a smile to his face. "Dean," he says, holding out a hand to shake which Bobby takes after a moment of consideration. "I think we both know Chuck? He gave me your name."

"Ah." Bobby nods to himself, clicking out of the side of his mouth as he gives Dean another once-over, eyes dark and too-knowing, Dean thinks, when they take in Dean's dirty clothes, grease-stained hands and unwashed body. "Well, alright." And with that Bobby turns his wheelchair, rolling outwards to clear the pews and then turning towards the back of the church. Dean, for a moment, watches him, until the girl clears her throat to gain his attention and hurriedly gestures for him to follow. Flushing, Dean picks up his duffle and jogs to catch up.

Bobby leads him through the church and into a small vestry beyond it. There is another office back here, two closet-like rooms that Dean assumes holds the priests' robes and whatnot, and then a second large wooden door is propped open, allowing fresh air to flow inside. Bobby gestures for him to step outside so Dean does, wincing at the sudden sunlight again and taking in the sprawling, overgrown graveyard before him. There are maybe a hundred graves, all older, Dean thinks, than he is by far, and in need a heavy weeding and pruning and just a good general clean-up.

"As you can see, we get about as many visitors as a prison," Bobby's voice comes from behind Dean, and when the younger man turns to look at him, his face is twisted into something like anger and sorrow, discontent in the set of his shoulders. "You can start by cleaning this place up – I can't do it anymore for obvious reasons, and I got no one else used to very hard labor."

Dean nods, and Bobby's eyes flash to his face. With another sigh he turns back inside, wheeling up a small ramp placed by the edge of the door, and gestures to one of the closets lining the wall. "You'll find some tools in there, the rest are in a shed at the edge of the graveyard." Dean nods again, pressing his lips together, fingers flexing around the handles of his duffle. The graveyard looks like it will need a lot of work, and between that and Chuck's cars, Dean knows he won't have a lot of time for his more recreational and much higher-paying job. Since he knows he's essentially doing this for room and board, he knows better than to complain because it's still the kindest damn offer he'll likely ever have, but even still, the thought of being so out of touch with the groundwork of this city, which the whores on Mary Boulevard are always privy to, sets him on edge.

"You'll stay here," Bobby says, again snapping Dean out of his thoughts. They've crossed the church into another wing, up a small ramp that Dean supposed used to be stairs, and have come to a stop at a small room barely big enough to hold a bed. There is one small, slit-like window that shines light directly across the bed at chest-height, and there is a small cupboard but nothing else. "There's a bathroom down the hall you can use, and I'll give you a key to this room so you don't get tourists traipsing in, but that's essentially it."

Dean swallows, because it's a damn sight better than anything he could have hoped for, but before he can express his thanks Bobby is turning again and spearing Dean with his stare. "Any questions?"

Just one. "Do a lot of folks come here?"

Bobby's eyes narrow, and his lips disappear into the thatch of his beard when he presses them together. "You hidin' from someone, son?"

"I, ah…" Dean swallows, shaking his head. "Well, this is a church…" He coughs, rubbing the back of his head, because Bobby's eyes aren't moving from him and Dean knows he's not going to get away with shrugging this off. "I guess what I'm really asking is: Is this Angel-marked?"

Bobby scoffs, leaning back in his wheelchair with enough force that Dean, for a moment, worries that he's going to tip the damn thing over. "Those featherheads wouldn't know it if God poked his finger up their ass," he states, blandly enough that it startles a small laugh out of Dean. "This church doesn't belong to anyone but them who go here and the pancake in the sky, you got it? If you're looking for a gang's protection you sure as Hell shouldn't be here."

"No," Dean replies quickly, holding up his hands towards the agitated man – always a sign of trust for Eagles, one he could never train out of himself no matter how hard he tried. "No, that's perfect, actually. I need some neutrality."

Bobby hums in approval, sharp eyes giving Dean one more once-over, before he turns himself around and wheels back down the corridor. "Get yourself started, boy. The day is young and I want to see a difference in that overgrown Eden before dinner."

 

 

John looks up from the evening paper as the doors to his office burst open, letting through his agitated son and his flustered-looking secretary. The smaller man is stammering at Sam, trying to get him to halt with words like 'Seeing nobody right now' and 'Explain yourself' and 'Come back later', and with a wave of his hand John silences Mister Pike, sighing and sitting back in his chair as Sam stalks up to his desk and the harried-looking man scurries away, wide-eyed and breathless.

"Evening, boy," John says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach, regarding his distressed son with a cool look, and gestures for Sam to take a seat. After a moment, Sam does, huffing out a loud breath and pushing both his hands through his hair to clear his face. "To what do I owe this impromptu meeting?"

Sam breathes out again, heavily, fixing his father with an angry glare. "What the fuck did you do to him?" he demands, voice low and too steady like when he aims the sight of his gun – John's eyes narrow at that. He'd _taught_ Sam that.

"You watch that mouth of yours, son, before it goes runnin' off." He sits back again, anger gone just as quickly as it had come. "Now, I'll ask again – what's on your mind?"

Just like that, Sam is out of his chair again, slamming his closed fist against the desk – not too hard, not too loud, but enough to get his frustration across. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" he demands, rounding on his father. "I was keeping _tabs_ on him, Dad, and he was where I could keep track of him and monitor him but then you send your _bitch_ after him and he goes A.W.O.L. Again!"

John sighs, rolling his eyes, and picks up the paper again. "I assume you're talking about your estranged big brother, then," he says with a one-shouldered shrug. "I merely persuaded him to cease in his current activities. I'll not have someone who knows so much about our organization getting on his knees for Angels."

"Now I don't know where he lives _or_ where he works, _Sir_ ," Sam hisses, biting out the title through clenched teeth. Under the anger, he feels a mild sense of panic – his eyes and ears to the city ground had told him of the carnage dealt to that car lot Dean works – _worked_ – at under his father's hand, but hadn't been able to give him any information about his own brother. "Fuck, is he even still alive, or did Yellow-Eyes deal with that _inconvenience_ too?"

"Sam," John replies, sounding almost hurt at the accusation, and lowering the corner of his paper to gaze at his son. "You wound me. Do you think I'm so uncivilized? No, the little whore is still alive, I'm sure." He straightens the paper out; holding it up in front of his face in a way that gives Sam no doubt that the conversation is over.

Sam's shoulders slump, as he stares at the dark lettering of the newspaper as though willing his father to lower it again, so that they can have a proper conversation for once in his damned life. Then, he deflates, rubbing a hand through his hair again, and takes his leave of the room. He had hoped, with so many years now between the incident and the present, that his father might have softened towards Dean, would at least let him live unmolested and unharmed, but he realizes now that that will never be Dean's life. It can't. The brand on his chest marks him and he cannot remove it no matter how hard he tries – to think that their father might be as callous and cruel as to continually torture Dean after already throwing him out and robbing him of everything…it hurts Sam. More than he would care to admit.

There is a warm body to welcome Sam to his bed, when he sighs and shrugs off his suit jacket and takes a seat by the side of the bed. Jess' hair is damp and clean from her shower, when she sits up and presses the side of her face against Sam's shoulder, her arm curling around his chest for him to hold her hand. "How'd it go?" she asks softly, muted, aware that even alone behind closed doors they can still be heard.

Sam sighs, kissing her fingers before letting her hand go, and standing back up. He traipses to the bathroom, leaving the door open as he shrugs out of his slacks and shirt and pulls on a pair of sleep pants over his underwear. "About as well as I'd thought it would," Sam admits, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks healthy, if a little tired, skin dark from recent sunlight and hair long and shiny, body obviously fit. Dean isn't so lucky – he looks sick, malnourished and haggard and worn like he has been running from something for a very long time. Sam knows he needs a shower and a decent meal, and he knows Dean has been taking money from his account like Sam offered, but now that he has no eyes on Dean, he cannot know what for or why. "Dad's a proud one, I guess – doesn't like to admit he's wrong."

"That runs in the family, I think," she calls back, earning a snort from Sam and a small smile. He returns to her in the bed, pulling the sheets aside and sliding in beside her, his arms wrapping tight around her while he can before they both get too warm and pull apart for their separate space.

"I want you to be able to meet him, one day," Sam whispers, brushing some of her hair from her face and searching her eyes. "I think you'd like him."

Jess smiles, placing her hand against Sam's cheek, briefly, before she rolls over and reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp and rejoins him in the circle of his arms. Sam breathes out against the top of her head, holding her close, and tries not to think too hard about where his brother might be now, if he's safe or hungry or cold, or on his knees for some Angel dick intent on ripping their secrets out from under them.

 

 

Dean's life falls into a rhythm once again. At one point he finds himself actually feeling _bored_ , and then laughing to himself because that notion is actually ridiculous and he needs to suck it up.

He sleeps in the small bed Bobby had loaned out to him, and in the morning he gets up as early as the sun slants right into his eyes, washing his hands and face in the small sink in the bathrooms, and then heads to the shed to get out the tools he'll need for grooming the graveyard back into a reasonable state. He sees the groundskeeper every now and again – a cantankerous old man named Rufus who likes to pop painkillers like candy ("For my back, and you mind you own damned business, boy") and throw random trowels at Dean when he's not deemed to be working fast enough. Luckily for Dean's progress, he tends to sleep while Dean's the one at work and they maintain a cool, wary distance from each other.

The grounds are Rufus' territory, whereas Bobby maintains the innards along with his flighty assistant with the multi-colored hair. Dean learns that her name is Meg, and that she changes her hair color about as often as Dean changes his clothes. She's nice enough, Dean supposes, if a little grating and times and likes to make lewd comments about how Dean's paying his way (accurate ones, even if not the way she thinks, but lewd nonetheless), but Dean mostly avoids her as well. It's not like he needs any interaction with the people who frequent this church and she's mostly in charge of organizing events outside of Masses and running the gift shop when tourists visit, so their paths rarely cross.

In the afternoon, after lunch, he leaves the church grounds and goes to help Chuck repairing the cars and slowly earning back all the money the damage had brought. Business had, inevitably, suffered after the Eagles' attack, but Chuck's customers are loyal in their own way and there are always barely-usable junkers that are just acceptable as Chuck's low-rent cars, so they managed to claw their way back from the abyss. Dean likes to think about his father's spies, watching him work his way out of the pit they'd dug for him, and smirks to himself in the middle of changing oil or rebuilding an engine.

It's tiring work, and not at all low-paying, and he barely has time to even get to the different ATMs to withdraw more money from Sam's account, let alone go to the docks and really earn his keep there. It's frustrating, an itch building up under his skin that Dean had never had time to notice before, but it's definitely there – something aching in his fingers for the roughness of a john shoving him against a wall, a burn for the penance and cleansing he feels whenever he swallows another load or takes another hard jolt to the knees. It's work, well-paying work, but it's also the way he keeps his eyes and ears low to the ground, knowing and finding out how this city works from the ears and the mouths of whores. They know everything that goes on within the Angel network, supposedly, because men like to talk, and Dean can't find the mole if he doesn't talk to the right people.

Dean sighs, tilting his head back as the cool air inside the church washes over him, only to jolt back to reality as a surprisingly strong hand shoves a set of keys against his chest.

It's Meg, her hair now black and matching her dark eyes, wearing a little red dress that even Dean wants to give her the once-over for, but he won't give her the satisfaction. "We're getting a delivery of some icons later tonight, and I'm going out. Watch the shop for me, will you? We need someone to sign for it."

He sighs again, tossing the keys up and catching them. "Sure thing," he replies with fake cheeriness, earning another wide grin from Meg as she traipses towards the door. "Any idea when the E.T.A. is?"

"Between seven and eight!" she calls back, letting the miniature person-sized door shut behind her, and Dean nods. That's about half an hour from now, so he has time to wash his hands and face of grease again and start locking up the outer buildings.

The delivery comes just past seven o'clock, and Dean signs for it and has them bring the boxes of icons inside. There's also a giant crate that Dean hadn't expected, but it's got the right address on it and when Dean kicks it nothing inside seems to move, so he's happy enough leaving it for Meg to sort out as he puts the boxes in the gift shop and leaves the crate sitting outside for Meg to find later.

That done and the outer door now locked, Dean heads back to his small room to get changed. The itch has become almost unbearable, and he needs to get out – without Meg there to drill him on where he's going, it's the perfect opportunity anyway, and he knows Bobby and Rufus will give him little trouble if he runs into any of them. He changes into the cleanest t-shirt and pair of jeans he owns, reminding himself to go to the Laundromat down the street later, and pockets his wallet. He doesn't bother with lubing himself up or taking preparation – he's not going out tonight for money, but for talk. Information, after all, is worth more than any money he could earn in one night selling his ass.

It's too early, though, to go straight to the docks. Most of the women there worth talking to don't even arrive until nine or later, so Dean doesn't head straight there. Instead, he walks along one of the main roads paralleling the docks until he comes to a familiar, but old haunt. This is the second-best place for information, and back in the days when he was still part of the Eagles, it had been the hub of information for spies on the Angels and their plans. Technically it's still an Eagle hub, but anyone who's low enough to drink there regularly is nowhere near close enough in rank to recognize his face anymore. That is, he supposes, one advantage; his father had been very thorough in erasing his name and memory from the group, to the point where to most of them he's just another face in amidst the chaos of their city life.

The bar is just as he remembers it – one large room flanked with round tables and barrel-like bar stools around. There's not a single booth in the entire place, nowhere someone could stash a weapon larger than a pistol except for the three shotguns Dean knows are always loaded and placed strategically behind the bar. There is a door on either side, one leading to the stock room and kitchens and the other leading to a staircase that goes up to the few rooms that get rented out and then downstairs to the basement where the owner and her family lives.

It's been a long time since he's come here, and he finds comfort in the lack of familiar faces as they peer at him and give him a quick once-over to determine his level of threat to each of the patrons already inside. There are few, less than a dozen men and women scattered along the bar discounting the wait staff and bartender, and Dean makes sure to keep his gaze on them for just long enough to memorize their faces (not long enough to threaten), before he sets his sights on the bar and walks over.

There's a petite blonde woman behind the bar, early twenties, same dark eyes as her father, which widen upon recognition of him before the expression is schooled quickly back into calm disinterest. "What's your poison?" she asks, wiping down a dirty section of the bar near Dean's forearm.

He slides a twenty over to her and smiles. "I need to talk to Ash. Is he here?"

She nods, pocketing the twenty with an easy, practiced swipe. "Usual place." A pause, her hair falling forward and hiding her face as she sets to polishing one of the glasses a server carried back to the bar for her to clean. "S'good to see you again."

"You too, Jo," he says with another smile, pushing himself to his feet and shouldering his way through the door to the right of the bar that leads downstairs. The stairs are old, and creak under his heavy steps, curling around so he ends up in a room directly underneath the bar and can hear the patrons laughing and talking above him if he listens quietly enough.

The room is dark and smells faintly of hops, over-padded red couches facing away and towards a big brick of a television, currently off. It looks comfortable, but sorely lacks the usual amount of sunlight Dean prefers – given the fact that it is nighttime, he supposes he can't blame the room for the harsh fake light swinging over his head.

Ash is there, scruffy mullet just visible over the back of the couch, and Dean clears his throat and remains by the door – who knows what kind of booby traps Ash had set up in his many-year-long absence.

The other man looks back behind himself at Dean's cough, his face immediately splitting into a smile. "Well, butter my ass!" he shouts, vaulting over the back of the couch and running over to greet Dean with a big hug. Dean laughs, patting his back awkwardly, careful not to squeeze the man too tightly – Ash has gotten skinnier since Dean last saw him, and Dean feels the irrational fear that he might break if hugged too tightly. "Dean – it's been ages, man. What have you been up to?"

Ash looks good, Dean decides, pushing the man back to hold him at arm's length. Even with his weight loss (which Dean can hardly judge for), he's maintained the wiry fitness of someone who's lived his whole life maintaining that the floor is lava and nothing can't be solved with a little bit of running. His hair is as messy as always, fluffy and waving on top of his head, and he has smile lines around his eyes that make Dean smile back. He's wearing big combat boots that Dean thinks he probably got from Ellen's husband's old clothes, and cargo pants with a kilt over it, a sleeveless Black Sabbath shirt with an open fishing jacket over that. Every bit the same weird, wonderful person Dean had known back in the old days.

He looks just as good as when he used to be Therese before he'd come to Dean asking for male pronouns and to be called 'Ash', and Dean had figured out that Ash had gotten him four times more excited than Therese ever could have. Without Ash, Dean would probably still be closeted and getting married off to the highest bidder instead of where he is now. Ash was, Dean has always maintained, his first love.

"I need a favor, buddy," he says, letting Ash go with another small grin. He can't imagine what Ash sees when he looks at Dean – the dark circles under his eyes or the startling lack of body fat still clinging to him now; he's more muscle from the gardening and working on the cars as he ever has been, and it used to be that his twink-ish body got him more attention but the johns at the docks, when they come to him, want to fuck a man.

Ash' eyes light up. "Sure thing, Dean, yeah. What do you need?"

Ash can get him anything – the Angels might own most of the police force but that doesn't mean Ash can't hack into any database behind their firewalls. He's one of the Eagles' biggest assets that Dean's father never uses because he's too 'queer' for his delicate sensibilities.

Dean sighs, running his hand through his hair. "I need to know – and wipe – everything the Eagles have on me. And the Angels. Clean slate. Can you do that?"

Ash pauses, eyes flickering to some point over Dean's head, mouth moving as he considers. Then, he snaps his fingers, pointing at the air. "Yes! It'll take a while to get all the files together and burn them, but I can do it!"

Dean releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thanks – God, you're really savin' my ass here, man, thanks."

"Don't mention it." Ash' grin is toothy as he returns to the couch, reaching over the back and hauling his behemoth of a laptop up against his chest to settle on a nearby table. "If you don't mind me askin' – why now? It's been…" He breathes out, gesturing to the air. "What? Six years?"

Dean hums, approaching Ash and leaning against the small table that's little more than a two-by-four on top of two sawhorses, and folds his arms over his chest. "Sam's getting married, Ash," he says softly, tilting his head back at Ash' surprised sound. "I need to do something big, and to do that no one can know who I am, you get me?"

Ash nodded, flicking his finger over the touchpad and lighting up the screen. "It'll take me longer to hack into the Angel databases," he said with a small grimace, rubbing the back of his neck and giving an apologetic look to Dean. "But the Eagles stuff on you I can have gone by the weekend. Will that work?"

"You're a lifesaver, Ash," Dean says, and he means it, clapping his friend on the shoulder and squeezing tightly. "I owe you one, seriously – anything you need, you call on me."

"Thanks, Dean," Ash replies with a grin, straightening and taking Dean's hand in both his own. "There's one more thing I wanna do, since you're here." He scurries away, disappearing behind a thick black curtain acting as a divider, and returns shortly after with a familiar gleam of steel and silver in his hand.

Dean gasps, reaching out and taking the gun – his gun, his favorite pistol when he was still an Eagle. He hadn't had time to retrieve it before his father publicly exiled him and made every Eagle in this city his enemy. He'd never have guessed that Ash had kept it. "How did you even…?"

"Ellen snatched it when John had your stuff thrown out. I'd always hoped you'd come back," Ash says with a shrug, smile soft. "Don't have extra bullets, but I figured it's the thought that counts."

The pistol comes back to him like an old friend, sitting easily in his hands, etchings on the grip familiar and shining at him. It's clearly been kept in good condition and Dean feels his throat getting tight, as he swallows hard and lifts his eyes to Ash. "Thank you," he says, as sincerely and strongly as he can manage when it feels like he can barely breathe past the lump in his throat.

His hands no longer have the familiar calluses around the saddle of his thumb and the base of his palm, but he knows he'll develop them again sooner rather than later. It already feels like a step in the right direction, knowing that he has this pistol, this symbol of his former life when everything else was taken from him.

Ash grins again, toothy and cheerful. "No problem, Dean," he says with a little salute, turning back to his computer. "I'll get started on this, then. Let me know if you run into any trouble, okay?"

"Sure thing." There's nothing else to say, really – plenty of things Dean could say. He could stick around for a while, ask how Jo and Ellen have been holding up after Bill's death, ask if any higher-ups still come in here asking around for him, ask about Sammy and John and Azazel and what the Eagles are planning, but he doesn't. Ash has gotten that glazed look in his eyes he gets when he loses himself in the machines, and so Dean tucks his pistol into the back of his jeans, glad now for the slack in them from his weight loss, and lets his t-shirt fall over it to hide it reasonably well, his jacket over that.

Jo's gone from the bar when he walks back upstairs, replaced by a man Dean vaguely recognizes, but the fact that he cannot place his name makes him nervous, so he quickly walks out without trying to draw too much attention to himself. He wants to go back to the church and hide the pistol before going to the docks, until it occurs to him that he's not going to need to get up close and personal with anyone tonight. He's not looking to sell.

Decided, he turns on his heel and starts the walk towards Mary Boulevard, his hands in his pockets and his head ducked down to avoid eye contact with those he comes across in the streets. It's a relatively long walk, on the other side of the city and very firmly planted in Angel territory, but he's not in a hurry – he still has plenty of time to kill.

His path takes him past Chuck's junkyard and he pauses when he sees the small man locking up for the night, and smiles when he approaches. "Hey, Chuck, closing up?" he asks, rocking on the heels of his shoes as the other man startles, before grinning.

"Dean! I was hoping I'd run into you. Listen, um…" He pats his pockets down, that eager, shy little smile that Dean's gotten so used to over the years flashing across his face. "You wouldn't happen to be going -?"

"I'll see what I can do," Dean replies, taking the roll of money from Chuck and shoving it into his jacket pocket as quickly as he can. He swallows guiltily over the fact that it has taken so long between the last time they did this and this night, because of the huge amount of damage that had occurred to the cars because of him. Or rather, his father being unable to leave well enough the Hell alone. "See you around," he adds, clapping a hand on his boss' robe-clad shoulder before heading off in the same direction, feeling a little better now that he has a clear goal in mind.

It's always been easy for him to take a truth and expand upon it for his benefit – without Chuck's money he can't realistically play the part of paying customer for very long before it looks suspicious. Many of the women on Mary Boulevard are on his side or at least know him well enough to not be skittish, but the last time he was there, there had been too many new faces, too much oversaturation on the streets. The addition of that new girl, Ruby, had left him feeling off and Becky's words had stuck with him – a double agent within the ranks, either loyal to Angel or Eagle or both or neither. If he avoids this man, he should be safe – if he doesn't, though, and it turns out that he is a loyal Angel spying on his father, perhaps it could be the salvation Dean needs to return to Sam's side.

First, he will have to find out who this man is; get back in touch with the feelers on the ground. Then, and only then, will he know what to do and how to proceed, but time's running out – April is looming closer and closer with every passing day and Dean feels the pressure rising on him.

It's a physical weight lifted from his shoulders when he sees Magda's familiar red mane of hair, turned away from him and standing alone with a cigarette stuck between her lips. "Magda," he whispers lowly, approaching her and expertly passing off the roll of money to her without a second's hesitation.

She places the roll between her breasts, her eyes lighting up warmly at the sight of Dean. "Baby bird, I was starting to think you'd flown the coop," she says, dark eyes gleaming, her smile as close to motherly as Dean can imagine. Then, one hand flicks out, holding out a cigarette to him out of a plain black box.

Dean holds up his hand, shaking his head. "Just had some…" He hesitates, rolling his shoulders, and straightens up. "Doesn't matter. Is Becky around? Someone who can catch me up on what I've missed?"

Magda's purple-painted lips purse out, her weight shifting as she thinks. "She went a while ago with a john," she says, smoke escaping her mouth as she speaks. "Silver Nissan, registration begins with a 'K'. Should be back within the hour unless he paid for more."

Dean smiles. "Thanks, Magda," he says, stepping back to allow her to pass as she grins and waves at him, on her way to go meet Chuck for the night. Dean sighs, seeing her go – without Magda or Becky around, he has very little idea of anyone else he could feel comfortable enough to talk to.

He contemplates, briefly, going to his usual starter alley and earning a bit of quick money while he's here, but the weight of the pistol at the small of his back is a reminder for him to keep as many clothes on as possible and he can't afford to have a john fucking him and accidentally feeling the pistol or risking setting it off or something stupid like that – something that would only happen to someone with Dean's kind of luck.

He sighs, ready to call it a night and try again tomorrow, before the sound of a car engine catches his attention and two vehicles swing around the corner at the end of the street. He shrinks back so he's standing partially into the shadows, eyes narrowing in recognition of the silver Nissan, and a small, ugly yellow car that honestly hurts his eyes to look at.

Dean's eyes widen when the yellow car pulls up right in front of him and the window lowers, the driver inside leaning across so Dean can see him. He curses under his breath – it's the new Angel, Castiel.

"Dean!" he stage-whispers urgently, waving for Dean to come closer. The younger man hesitates, his eyes flicking to where Becky is getting out of her john's car, he can hear her fake high-pitched laughter and the clack of her heels. "Dean," Castiel calls again. "Over here!"

"Jesus," Dean growls, rubbing a hand over his face and half-jogging over to Castiel's ugly yellow car, getting in and slamming the door behind him. "Don't you guys ever practice tact? I'm not exactly _wanted_ here, you know," he snaps, momentarily forgetting that Castiel is a paying customer and Dean shouldn't be rude to him.

Castiel's eye narrow at him, head tilting just to one side like Dean's started speaking to him in another language. "I want to talk to you about something," he says after a moment, shifting his car back into drive. "I assume another location would be more suitable."

Dean leans forward, eyes landing on Becky standing with Ruby and another girl he doesn't recognize, and he swallows, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah," he says, letting himself sit back and folding down the sun-protector to partially hide his face in shadow. "Probably should turn back the other way. There's a street to the right, three blocks down, badly lit. We can do whatever you want there."

At least in a car he'll be able to take off his jacket and hide the gun in the folds.

Castiel drives in silence to Dean's directions, and the younger man takes a moment to look him over. He looks largely unchanged from Dean's memory; the same five o'clock shadow on his jaw and his eyes an even brighter blue in the flare of the street lights. His skin looks paler in the glow of the dashboard, but the dark circles that Dean remembers noticing seem better now and his movements are no longer slightly stiff with pain from the Angel wings tattooed onto his back.

Dean finds himself wondering what Castiel's been up to – if he's been looking for Dean in the past few weeks, has noticed his absence as much as Magda has or if he's been keeping to himself as well and this is coincidence. Magda hadn't mentioned any callers for him, but that doesn't mean there weren't any, and the fact that something as simple as a whim could have driven them together again? The son of an Eagle and the new Angel with blue eyes? No, Dean doesn't quite believe in coincidence.

They pull onto the road Dean described. There are two lights marking the entrance to the road and the exit, and there are no other cars that Dean can see in the darkness. Castiel pulls right against the curb in the middle of the street and cuts the engine.

For a long moment, the two men just sit in silence, until Dean feels a creeping up the back of his neck and he shifts in place. "So, you want the same as last time or the full hundred?" he asks, forcing a cavalier smile to his face as Castiel turns to look at him.

The dark-haired man's brow furrows. "No, Dean." His cheeks redden and he bites his lower lip, eyes raking down Dean in a familiar gaze. "Well. Maybe. But I honestly did want to talk to you."

Dean raises an eyebrow, before he grins and begins to shrug off his jacket, putting his many years slipping money to Magda and wallets out of unsuspecting drunks to work slipping the pistol from the back of his jeans and fold it over, stuffing it into the foot well. "So, you talk," he says, flashing teeth in his grin and throwing a wink Castiel's way, "and I'll make sure you enjoy yourself while you do."

"Dean." Castiel's protest is halfhearted at best, as Dean slides to the edge of his seat and starts working at the button and zip of Castiel's slacks. He grins against the erection that greets him, running his lips along the head of Castiel's cock as the man's hand flattens across his shoulder, squeezing tightly as he fills and hardens in Dean's hand enough that Dean can pull his cock out all the way and take him into his mouth. "Mm, _fuck_ , Dean -."

Dean hums, his jaw relaxing and his fingers tightening as he starts up the familiar rhythm. His cheeks are burning and red from the heat within the car and he kind of wishes Castiel would crack a window, stop it fogging up as bad, but honestly he's feeling selfish and he wants to keep the moans Castiel is making for himself.

He lets his mouth sink down, swallowing hard around the head of Castiel's cock as it hits the back of his throat, groaning in encouragement when the other man's hand settles on the back of his neck, resting lightly, his thumb dragging against the line of Dean's messy, dirty hair.

"Dean, I need to – you're making it _very hard to concentrate_ ," Castiel complains, and Dean pulls off to grin up at him. Castiel's head is tilted back against the headrest, his chest heaving already, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows and Dean decides quickly that he likes the look of Castiel like this – he's a handsome man anyway, and sex-flush just adds another layer to him that Dean thinks he could get used to very quickly.

"Good, I'm doing a good job then," Dean replies with a grin, letting his tongue snake out to lick a long stripe up the other man's cock before sucking the head back into his mouth. Castiel hisses, hips giving a subtle little jerk upward before being stopped by the seatbelt still trapped tight around his waist. It can't be comfortable but Castiel isn't complaining – his hand is subtly kneading the muscles of Dean's neck which, well, which actually feels really nice, and it's all the encouragement Dean needs to suck Castiel as deep into his mouth as he can get. He lets his spit drip down the man's cock, warming his fingers and slicking them up before he starts to stroke as well, the heat of his mouth and the warmth of his fingers providing a counter-point of sensation that Dean knows from experience never fails to get a john off.

It's not long before Castiel's breath is coming short, even though Dean's jaw aches around the girth of him and honestly the sounds he's making have Dean getting hard as well, his free hand digging against his erection to try and get some relief for himself as he sucks Castiel as hard as he can and lets the other man pet through his hair until his fingers twitch, clench just slightly, and he comes with a breathless sigh and a muffled groan stifled against the back of his own hand.

Dean swallows, milking Castiel for as much come as he can get so that he doesn't stain, before pulling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Castiel's head is still tilted back, eyes closed, jaw working as he swallows, before his eyes open again and he turns to gaze at Dean with an assessing look.

"I don't think I'll pay you yet," he says evenly. "It'll stop you bolting so soon."

It's Dean's turn to blush, the heat of the car and Castiel's level stare making his eyes dip back down. He rubs the back of his head, unconsciously brushing over the warmth still clinging to him where Castiel's fingers had been. "Okay, you got me," he says with a sigh, sitting back and rolling his eyes. He shifts his weight, hissing at the tightness of his jeans and the pretty obvious boner he's sporting now, and prays that Castiel either doesn't notice or doesn't care enough to offer to sort it out for him. "What did you want to talk about?"

Those bright blue eyes rake over him again, Castiel's tongue snaking out to lick at his bottom lip, before he shifts and leans closer. Dean freezes, his eyes locked on Castiel's, unsure how to react to the man leaning so close into his space, before Castiel's hand dips behind his chair and he sits back, returning with a large manila folder in his hand. A pen is tucked into the file and he pulls it out, flipping it open to reveal blank lined paper, and Dean's really starting to get confused and not at all sure how to react to this.

"I need your help," Castiel says after a moment, his gaze fixed on Dean's face with that same level stare that's really starting to get unnerving. "I have been assigned a task that requires tact and covert operations, and I can't think of a better person than you."

Dean scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck again, his eyes flicking away to the side-view mirror and licking his lips, shifting in place. "Look, Cas, I don't know what impression I gave but -."

"You work the streets," Castiel insists, not looking away. "You know more about this city than I could ever dare to know, Dean."

Dean shifts in place again, all of the heat feels like it's been sucked out of the car and he kind of finds himself wishing he'd just put off his itch for one more day, his urge – maybe, then, Castiel wouldn't have found him, cornered him again.

Though he can't fight the small part of him that is saying that's not quite true.

"What's the assignment?" he sighs, letting the back of his head lean against the headrest. He doesn't need the money, he doesn't need to stick around and get sucked into this, but if he leaves there's nothing to stop Castiel following him, or compromising his position in another way. He can't afford to have anyone upsetting this tentative balance he's managed to carve out for himself, and all it would take is Castiel calling his name just a little too loudly on the wrong street to fuck everything up.

Castiel smiles at him, large and flashing teeth. "As you know, I recently joined the Angels," he begins, pausing long enough for Dean to nod an acknowledgement before taking a breath and continuing; "Well, a superior approached me a couple of weeks ago, saying he has reason to suspect that there's a double agent working within the organization. I've been tasked to find them and smoke them out."

Dean feels like he can't breathe – Castiel's in charge of smoking out the rat. That means he can't be it, right? Can't be the double agent for the Eagles – unless he is, and he recognizes Dean, and he knows him and wants to earn his trust and lure him into somewhere secret and safe to waste him for good…

…Something like a dark alley where no one's going to look too closely.

Dean opens his eyes, lets out a breath, and toes at the gun wrapped in his jacket as he turns his head to look over at Castiel's open, expectant expression. "Why you?" he asks, hedging, buying himself some time.

Castiel's mouth turns down, a small, self-deprecating smile coming to his face. "Because I'm new," he says simply. "Everyone is more suspect to me because I have not had time to form the kind of friendships that would blind other Angels."

Dean licks his lips, swallows. "Why me?" he asks, and it feels like such a loaded question and a half, but Castiel rubs the back of his neck, a small, hollow-sounding laugh falling from his mouth.

"Because you are the only person I know outside of the organization," he says, and Dean's heartbeat stutters – _he knows, he knows, he_ -. "The women working on Mary can be bought; their tongues belong to the woman who owns them – a woman who does not necessarily have the Angels' best interests at heart." He pauses, looking to Dean again. "But you don't – you're an outsider, both from the Angels and from the whores, and you're the only person I know who can help me, who _will_ help me."

"Dude, not to be crass or anything, but sucking your cock twice doesn't translate to personal sleuth," Dean says, shaking his head. His palms are starting to sweat and he rubs his hands against his thighs, nails kneading through his raggedy jeans.

Castiel blinks at him, brows furrowing. "I am not asking you to sneak around," he says slowly, sounding genuinely confused. "I am merely hoping you'll be able to ask your friends, keep your eyes and ears open, and give me some possible places to start looking myself." He cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowing in a little squint. "I am willing to pay you handsomely for any help you can give me."

Dean licks his lips, considering. The money would come in handy, and having a safety net to fall back on should he majorly fuck up would be good, but trusting an Angel? Telling him secrets? If this goes wrong, Dean's ass will be on the line – and he'll never be able to see Sam ever again. But if he finds the double agent and kills or exposes him and it turns out he was an Angel loyalist trying to fuck over the Eagles? Not even his father could ignore him then, could tell him to stay away from Sam's wedding.

But what if he's an Eagle spying on the Angels? Dean swallows, looking away and fixing his gaze outwards. "Sorry, Cas, I can't," he says, coming to a decision, and leans down to scoop up his jacket and gun and cracks open the passenger side door. "I get where you're coming from, really, but some of my clients are Eagles too and if I gotta remain neutral – I start asking questions and -."

A hand shoots out, grip hard and strong, and though Dean struggles he finds he doesn't have enough leverage to break free. "Then tell _me_ how to identify them, too," Castiel says, that earnest and needing expression returning to his face. "You don't need to stick your neck out – I get it, I mean, I have a lifeline, my superior -."

"Superior," Dean repeats, sitting back in his seat. "Like an Archangel? The big kahuna himself?"

Castiel sucks his lower lip into his mouth, drawing Dean's gaze there as he worries it with his teeth. "He's not the Archangel," he admits, letting Dean go as the man settles back into his seat and turns to face him. "But he is very high up – my mentor."

"Your buddy from the other night?" Dean presses, and Castiel nods, a small smile coming to his face like he's fond of the man but can't stand him at the same time. "What's his name?"

Castiel blinks. "Gabriel."

_Gabriel_. Dean's father had always called him 'The Trickster'. One of the sneakiest sons of bitches, and one of the more slippery ones too. It's been six fucking years, and Dean hates the fact that he didn't recognize him on sight. Hell, it was thanks to Dean that the Eagles had a face to the name in the first place, and the thought that the man has seen him twice now settles uneasily in Dean's gut – he supposes he can thank blood loss and shadowy alleyways and the fact that the past six years have not been kind to him, to the fact that he hasn't been I.D.'ed yet.

Castiel's voice snaps him out of his thoughts; "Do you know him?"

He shakes his head quickly, licking his lips again. "I know the name," he says, shifting in place. "He's, ah, yeah – kind of up there."

Castiel nods, smiling slightly. "He's the one who told me about the suspected double agent – he also suggested I make a friend outside of the organization, and I could think of no other person than you. If you know Eagle characteristics and how they interact, then that makes you even more valuable to me." He sits back, folding his hands across the blank pad of paper. "Give me a number – any price is worth ridding the Angels of a suspected mole."

"What if he's an Angel, and playing doubles the other way?" Dean counters, feeling that creeping unease up the back of his neck again. He should leave, before he gets sucked in – before he convinces himself that the resources Castiel has access to could help Dean to further his own goals.

The other man pauses, blue eyes dark and giving nothing away. Dean sighs, opening the passenger side door again without waiting for an answer, clutching his coat and gun close to his chest and stepping out into the dark, unlit street. "Don't worry about payment – it's on the house," he says, closing the door behind him and tucking his gun back into his jeans before slinging his jacket over his shoulders.

"Dean! Wait!" He ignores Castiel's yelling, and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the ugly yellow car trailing the street behind him before he ducks into a small alley through which the car cannot follow. He contemplates heading home, back to the church, but if Castiel tries to follow him back to his only hideout then he'll have compromised his little haven once again, this time to a definite enemy.

Mary Boulevard doesn't provide much more shelter, but at least if he tells Becky that he's trying to avoid Castiel then she can help him out a little should the man show up. Decided, he ducks his head and tucks his coat closer around his chest and half-runs back to Mary Boulevard.

When he gets there, he finds a huge group of women huddled together – more than he's ever seen grouped together, seven or eight of them – around a familiar mane of red hair. It's too early for Magda to be back and, dread curling up into the pit of his stomach, he hurries over.

Becky and Ruby are there too, the short brunette narrowing her eyes at him but moving to one side as he cuts through the crowd to reach Magda, who's crying into her palm, her cheeks wet with tears and eyes wide and panicked. "Magda?" he hazards, reaching out to her, and she turns to face him and gasps, clutching at his coat and burying her face in his chest.

There's blood on her fingertips.

"Oh, baby bird – it was awful! He's…" She steps back, covering her mouth again, and shakes her head, and Dean doesn't want to hear the words – can't hear the words, he can't, he _can't_ -. "There was so much blood. And he…he wasn't breathing and…"

Dean's heart feels like it's stuck in his chest. "Is Chuck…?" He can't say the word, but Magda nods and more tears start to spill out from behind her kohl-lined eyelids, and he curses, rubbing his hand over his mouth, thumb tugging at the corner of his lips. "Fuck."

_Fuck_.

He reaches out, taking her wrist in a gentle but firm grip, and pulls her away from the group of girls, glad for Becky as she keeps them back and tells them to get back to work as Dean pulls Magda into one of the smaller alleys between a strip club and another bar.

"Tell me everything you saw," Dean says urgently, wrapping his arms around her and letting her sob for a moment, stroking a hand through her thick hair and tucking her head under his chin. He feels numb, like he can't quite believe what's happening – this is all too…

Too much.

Dean doesn't believe in coincidence.

She shakes her head, drawing her bloody fingertips back and forth across her lips. "He was just… Oh my God, baby bird, he was just _laying there_ , and there was this…this symbol and -."

"What symbol?" Dean asks, wrapping his hands around the tops of her arms and pulling her to face him properly. "What symbol was it, Magda? Please, tell me, I need to know."

"It was like a…" She swallows, her eyes wide and dark and fixed on his face and Dean feels like he already knows the answer, but he has to hear it from her, actually from her -. "It was like a, a star, with flames around it. Painted right across the top of the bed."

Dean closes his eyes and lets her go, leaning against the brick alley wall. "Fuck," he growls, turning around and knocking his knuckles against the wall – not hard enough to damage anything or let out any of the anger he's feeling, but enough that his knuckles get scraped and send a stinging pain down the back of his hand. "Fuck!"

Magda leans against the wall with him, another half-muffled sob coming out as more tears fall. "It must have just happened when I got there," she whispers, and only now can Dean notice how her hands are trembling. "They could have been there when I arrived, but they weren't, and – God, they could have…"

"You're alright, Magda," Dean says, pulling her into another hug and placing a kiss against her forehead. "You're okay. They didn't wanna hurt you, you're fine."

"Why did they want to hurt _him_?" she demands, pushing against Dean's chest until he lets her go, wiping at her cheeks and glaring at him with blazing, narrowed eyes. "He was such a sweetheart! He didn't hurt nobody, couldn't've made any enemies that would wanna hurt him."

"I don't know," Dean replies, guilt making his voice thick as she huffs and turns away.

"Don't you dare lie to me. Whatever business you're getting yourself mixed up in, it wasn't Chuck's fault!" she whispers harshly, wiping at her face again before she shakes her hair back behind her shoulders, taking a deep breath and letting it out, shoulders rolling as she straightens up. "He didn't deserve what got brought on him."

Dean swallows, licking at his lips. "I know," he says, too quietly, but she's always striding away, her heels clicking hollowly on the sidewalk as she turns out of the alleyway and back towards whatever prostitutes still remain and haven't been called into various cars for the night.

Dean curses low under his breath, turning around and punching the wall again, gritting his teeth against the bite of pain running up from his knuckles and around his wrist. Then, he turns around and leans his head back against the wall, staring upwards at the smog-clouded sky, and releases a huge breath. Chuck is dead. Someone – likely an Eagle, probably the same man who hit up his business and tried to send Dean a message – is the one who killed him.

How could they have known Chuck would be at his usual motel, his usual place for Magda? As far as Dean knows, Chuck only went there when he was going to visit Magda for the night. And they could only know that Magda was going to see Chuck if they'd seen Dean show up.

He straightens, looking forward, his bruised fingers clenching. How had Castiel known that, tonight of all nights, Dean would be here? Could he have ordered the hit – or carried it out himself – and then met Dean?

"Fuck," Dean whispers again, rubbing his hand over his mouth, his other reaching back behind himself to feel along the blunt, flesh-warm edge of the metal grip. He needs answers – he needs them sooner rather than later. Somehow someone – Castiel? Maybe, can he be, he could, he could, _he's the enemy, Dean, you can't trust those featherheads farther than you can throw them_ – wanted a hit on Chuck and had chosen the one day that he would be found, away from his home, away from his business.

He pulls his jacket up to hide part of his face, not even sure now which eyes he's meant to trust anymore, and scurries back towards the church, his eyes peeled for ugly yellow cars hidden within the shadows or flashes of blue eyes in the men he passes under the streetlights. He finds none, and that just puts him more on edge than ever.

 

 


	5. Five

Dean wakes the next morning feeling like he's been swallowing cotton, his head pounding and squinting against the bright light shafting across his face as he looks up at the harsh knocks against his door. He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, and swings his legs up from the uncomfortable little cot that he's been calling his bed, and going over to the door.

"Finally, Sleeping Beauty." It's Meg, black hair perfectly gelled into a style that kind of resembles Dean's own, wearing light skinny jeans, black boots that give Dean inappropriately-timed thoughts, and a loose black shirt with some silver bling that Dean doesn't look at too closely. "Come help me unload this crate that came yesterday – it's huge and I can't lift it by myself."

Dean grunts in acknowledgement, stepping out and wiping his hands across his eyes to try and wake up as he follows Meg out towards the church proper. It's a Sunday morning and there are some people milling around in preparation for the morning Mass, and Dean keeps his eyes ducked down and tries to avoid eye contact because Bobby had said this was neutral ground, but that didn't mean there weren't overlaps and Dean's week has been getting far too weird to be comfortable anywhere anymore.

He follows Meg to the side of the gift shop where the crate was offloaded. It comes up to half Dean's height all over again and Meg wordlessly hands him a crowbar. "Before the real crowd shows up," she says with a lopsided grin that Dean, in his coffee-deprived state, wants to roll his eyes at.

He feeds the end into the two corners at the left top and left bottom, unhinging the sides of the crate from the box proper, and tracks it across the edge to make a big enough gap to get his fingers in. It takes a good ten minutes of twisting and pulling while at the same time trying to remain as quiet as possible, but he manages to unhook the side of the crate from the rest, and he carefully sets it to one side along with the crowbar.

It's a statue, life-size, of a warrior from what Dean can see between the scraps of packing paper. Gingerly he grimaces, reaching in to try and scoop out some of the packaging, unfolding the paper and setting it against the unhinged top and gesturing for Meg to return.

"The hell is this meant to be?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest as Meg starts to go in and hand back little rolls of packing paper for him to keep unfolding.

"New order," she says, unhelpfully, and Dean rolls his eyes. "It was commissioned by one of Bobby's friends, far as I can tell. Don't know who."

Dean frowns – call him paranoid, but he'd always thought Meg was the brains of this whole operation. To not know where giant deliveries had come from? True, the organizations had moved past the whole bombings and mass shootings, gone to smaller hits and poisons that looked like heart attacks, but to receive a huge crate and not know where it came from?

Maybe he'd give this statue a closer look later. Just in case. What harm could it do?

He helps hauling the second wall apart, the top of the box coming with it and allowing them both to unpack it fully. By the time they're finishing the opening chords for the procession are starting and so Meg joins the rest of the crowd in the pews, and Dean goes back to his room. He washes his face and through his hair and under his arms, changing into the last set of clean clothes he actually owns – he _really_ needs to go to a damned Laundromat – and goes to the bathroom, in general getting ready for the day. When that's done, he retreats to the graveyard to wait out the Mass where he should remain relatively undisturbed – and, if Rufus is there to kick him in the ass for it, he may as well do some yard work while he's back here.

The graveyard looks a damn sight better than when he first put his hands to it, Dean's proud enough to admit that. At least half of the headstones are actually legible now, cut free of their restraining branches and hosed down until even the grey stone headstones gleam in the weak morning sunlight. Dean smiles, running his hand across the closest one that glows dull black and sports the name 'Dana Schulps' on it, along with the words 'Beloved Wife and Mother, Let Angels Sing Thee to Thy Rest'. It's strange, he supposes, to be so comfortable and at peace around dead and rotting corpse, but Dean feels content here. Usually Eagles cremate their dead, and instead of graves their dead line the walls of one giant mausoleum set on the other side of the city, but he supposes there's something almost poetic to being buried, to reunite with the dirt from whence you came.

With a sigh, he lets his hands drop and goes to Rufus' cabin to grab the pruning shears and thick gloves that he has become very intimate with over the past few weeks, and loses himself over the next hour to tending the weeds and cutting back the dense touch of nature that has spread over this place for God knows how long.

He's disturbed after a moment by a small cough, and flinches back, putting his hand against his eyes to shield them from the sun as he turns around and sees a woman staring back at him. She's petite, barely half Dean's height and probably eighty pounds soaking wet, with dark hair and smile-line wrinkled skin, her slanted eyes narrow as she grins at him.

"Um," Dean coughs, pulling off one of his gloves to scratch at the back of his neck. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Dean Winchester?"

Dean nods, his heart stuttering as he licks at his lips. "And you are?" he asks, subconsciously looking her over for weapons or threat. He's not sure how such a small woman could be a threat to him, but he's learned the hard way not to underestimate his enemy.

Her smile widens as she steps forward, fixing Dean with a no-nonsense expression. "Ash sent me," she says, and Dean raises his eyebrows, straightening up. He wants to ask how Ash knew where the Hell he was, but he's learned not to underestimate Ash, either. "My son, Kevin, works at The Roadhouse and with Ash."

Dean blinks, raising his eyes to cast around furtively and make sure they're not being watched. "Show me," he demands, and she fixes him with a stern glare before hiking up the sleeve of her loose sweater, showing Dean the black star surrounded by fire inked onto her skin, and Dean shivers and nods, shoulders rolling. So she is an Eagle, or at least Eagle-loyalist. He's not sure what that means in regards to him, but if Ash sent him then it can't be too bad. Kevin's a new name, and as far as he knows his father has never recruited someone who fits this woman's description. "Give me a name?"

"Linda Tran," she replies smoothly, and Dean nods again. Definitely unfamiliar. New people, maybe – maybe people Ash asked for himself. Maybe not a threat, not an enemy, Dean can't be sure. "He wanted me to tell you that he's hit a roadblock on the Angel network. They've got a new firewall up, or something, I can't be sure, he used a lot of jargon." She waves her hand irritably and Dean can't fight his grin – he knows, Ash can get excited and Dean's pretty sure he'll stop speaking English and slide into that cyber geek stuff at the drop of a hat. "Anyway, he says it'll take a while, so keep your head down."

"Thanks," he replies sincerely, and she nods and fixes him with another smile. "Could you give him a message back for me?" Her mouths twists, but she nods again. "I want to get as much information as possible on someone. A new Angel named Castiel." She nods once more, huffing softly and rolling her eyes when he asks if she got all that. "Thanks, Mrs. Tran. I appreciate this."

She waves her hand again, brushing him off. "Don't sweat it, kid – you think this is the first foolhardy run I've been sent on for your sake?" Dean blinks, frowning and wondering what that might mean, before she turns away, tugging her sleeve back down. "Stay safe, Dean."

"Thank you," Dean says again, before he raises his head at the sound of the church bells ringing and signaling the exit to the Mass. He sighs, knowing Meg will be back to hound him into helping her again, so he tugs his gloves off and puts the tools away, stepping back underneath the vaulted ceilings and into the mercifully cool air.

"There you are," Meg's voice cuts into him and he turns to face her, grimacing and lowering his eyes from her judgmental look at his dirty and sweaty state. "C'mon, help me with the crate and then you can get back to…whatever it is Singer thinks you do here."

"Why, Meg, you sure you're not sweet-talkin' me?" Dean asks mockingly, striding after her and grinning when she flips him the bird over her shoulder. He pulls his fingers against the top of the third wall and yanks it back, grunting at the effort as he leans it along with its brothers along the wall and the folded pieces of packing paper. "You gonna ask me out for dinner and a show later?"

"Shut up and help me," Meg retorts, rolling her eyes and helping him shift the last wall away, picking at the remaining shreds of paper from the statue. It's an Angel, a real one, in a suit of armor, its wings raised up high and arm above its head to drive its sword into the head of a demon trapped beneath its foot. Dean's breath catches – the statue is beautiful, grey and gleaming dully in the low light, and a memory stirs in the back of his head. He's seen this picture before.

Meg huffs, blowing some of her fringe out of her face, and crouches down to brush at the small words etched with gold leaf into the base. " _'Michael, the Archangel, pray for us'_ ," she reads, humming softly and standing back up, arms across her chest, weight cocked and head tilted. "Interesting choice."

Dean's stomach tightens uneasily, his fingers clenching into the meat of his biceps. "I thought this church was neutral ground," he says, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. "Kind of on the nose to put a tribute to the big Angel kahuna here, isn't it?"

"Kind of hard to have a church without Angels," Meg retorts with a roll of her eyes, before stepping forward and brushing off some imaginary dust from the Angel's muscled chest. "Alright, I think we can leave this here for now – go take the garbage to the dumpster down the street."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replies, only a little mockingly, and shoulders the broken sides of the crate and bunches as much of the paper as he can under his arm. "I'm gonna be out for the day today, if Bobby asks about me." Meg hums disinterestedly, waving him away – there are visitors in the gift shop now and she'll likely need to attend to them soon, so Dean makes his way out of the church through the graveyard and to one of the side streets to the left of it where there's been a big yellow Skip for several days, and hauls the pieces of wood over, as well as stuffing the paper into a nearby garbage can.

After that, he goes to Chuck's – he's already called the scrap boys and told them to take everything and anything they wanted. When he gets there, Garth's already arrived with his cheerful grin and gives Dean a small wave as the man smiles and unlocks the yard for him. He spends his time going through Chuck's trailer and sorting through his things while Garth surveys the cars outside.

Chuck's novel is still stuck into his typewriter, the finished pages stacked off to one side. He casts his eyes over it, brow creasing as he sees the black, bold 'The End' stamped across the bottom. Son of a bitch had actually finished the book. Wow.

Absently, not even sure why he does it, Dean takes the last page and finishes the stack, before tucking it into a satchel slung across the back of Chuck's chair. There's some money stashed underneath the desk in one of the drawers, but not much else that isn't pure sentimentality that Dean can't claim. He pockets the money and shoulders the satchel full of Chuck's manuscript as well as a few choice bottle of Jack he finds on one of the cabinets above his head, and then goes back out to tell Garth that if he wants to take the trailer, too, he's more than welcome to it.

In the end, every piece that Garth can take, that's worth taking, puts Dean at just under four thousand dollars. It's about two hundred per car, which Dean knows is because of the smashed windows and the graffiti, and it hurts something deep in his soul when Garth doesn't even take a second glance at the Impala, deems her too damages and too past saving to even use for scraps, but he takes the money and gives Garth the keys to the yard so that his boys can come in and start hauling the cars away.

He doesn't have to worry about paying Chuck anymore – he doesn't owe him any money now, but he also has no way of earning more in an honest way. That four thousand will only extend so far, and yeah, he's staying at the church for free while he works his way and makes himself useful, but that work will only extend so far, and he has to eat, and he has to move – he can't stick around in one place for so long. He needs to start working into earning his father's good graces back. April looms closer and closer every day and Dean's boss has just been killed in an Eagle-related attack and he feels like the walls are starting to close in. Hell, if the cops can find him, they'll probably want to ask him about Chuck's disappearance and death, and everyone knows the cops are run by Angels. What would they do if they got their hands on the Winchester prodigal son?

He just needs to hold out, just for long enough for Ash to wipe his slate clean. Then he can move out somewhere safer and really put his plan into action.

Castiel is the only grey area right now. The man seems to have an uncanny ability to find him, to know when he's going to be on the Boulevard, or close by. It would be coincidence if Dean believed in such a thing. If Castiel starts to dig too deep before Ash can wipe Dean's slate, well, there are things he might be able to find, and Dean can't afford to work with him until he knows exactly what Castiel could possibly know about him – until he's in the position of power, of knowing more than his enemy.

Though, he supposes, if he starts working with the Angel, he'd have to call him a business associate instead.

And there it is. If Dean gets in bed with the Angels (more than he already has) and works with Castiel to try and get rid of the mole, regardless of who they might actually be working for, then it could mean learning Angel secrets as well, things that would make him valuable to his father once again. Things that could ultimately hurt them in the long run. And he can always control what information he gives Castiel too, right? And if something goes wrong, if something ultimately fucks him up and he needs a scapegoat, well, the poor guy will have just gotten himself involved with the wrong people. Happens all the time – it's sad but it's true.

Dean brings the booze and manuscript back to his room in the church, ignoring the stern face of the glaring Archangel statue whose eyes seem to follow him when he's moving through the church. He can't see Meg or Bobby or Rufus anywhere – for the first time in a long time, he feels completely alone and unwatched within this little complex, and it settles him as he cracks a half-empty bottle of Jack open and takes a swig.

He could do it; sell secrets to the Angels to get secrets in return. Granted, most of his information would be out of date at best, downright wrong at worst, but it's not his head on the line. He can blame the johns that were supposedly whispering dark words into his ear at night. He can always blame circumstance, or technology, or simply bad timing for anything that could go wrong. He could do it – he could earn Castiel's trust and kill the rat and take credit for it. If the rat's an Angel loyalist, then it'll be enough to earn a place back at his father's side. If not, if he ends up killing an Eagle on his dad's payroll, well, then he'll have to gain enough secrets to make himself valuable anyway.

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to work with Castiel, just a little.

But not yet.

He just has to hold out until Ash gets him the information he needs, and until he decides what to do with the money he's gotten. Until he decides just where he stands in the ever-shifting miasma of this God-forsaken city.

He should go to Magda, and Becky, and maybe give Magda some of the cut of the money made from the cars. After all, she relies on Chuck's money just as much as Dean used to, and Dean will have to go back to the Boulevard to earn his keep when the rest of the money starts to run dry.

He swallows the last of the bottle, bringing his lips back around his teeth at the burn, and punches his pillow. "Damn it," he growls, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. Godfuckingdamn it.

 

 

"Castiel, I haven't seen you around for a while. What's up?"

Castiel feels his shoulders relax, his expression softening into a genuine smile as he approaches Samandriel's desk, pleased and happy to see the youngest in their organization besides himself. He supposes Samandriel is the closest thing he can come to having a friend, even if the Angel is also part of them, and Samandriel's gift with technology and hacking has rendered Castiel in awe of him more than once.

"You're not busy, are you?" he asks, brows furrowing as he lifts his eyes and scans around the empty office. Samandriel unofficially works for the transit section of the Angels – their shipping routes, the plans for the docks and the roster for every ship coming in and out and what they're bringing. He is part of the team that monitors what comes into and out of this city by the sea. "I was going to ask your help with something."

Samandriel's eyes brighten, steel-grey and eager, and he smiles, shutting his laptop and sitting forward, gesturing to the second chair across from his desk. "Sure, Castiel, anything. What can I do for you?"

Castiel blushes slightly at the eager, youthful smile on Samandriel's face. It would be enough to tempt Castiel himself, in another life, he thinks, but Samandriel is too entrenched in this organization for Castiel to ever consider propositioning him like that, and even then the younger man's slate-eyed are no match to the fervent green he's seen far too few times for his taste, his pink lips too pale in comparison for kiss-bruised fullness that he finds himself thinking about far too often for his own good.

He takes a seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting back, fingers laced and hanging between his knees. "I need to find out some information about a person," he says, gnawing into his lower lip as Samandriel's brow quirks in interest. "I only have a first name, and I know he works the docks, but that's about it."

Samandriel blows out a breath, sitting back, before he flips his laptop open again and keys in the password. "Well, I've found more for less. What kind of things should I be looking for?" he asks, his voice deliberately even, but Castiel's eyes narrow at the nervous drum of his fingers against the keypad, too light to press into anything, and the way his eyes keep darting up to Castiel's face and then back to the screen.

He huffs, leaning back again and crossing his legs so his left ankle rests on his right knee. "I imagine he'll have a record," Castiel says dispassionately, looking away to the flat grey carpet and unadorned peach walls. It's an awkward combination that hurts his eyes and he can't imagine being stuck in here all day, with the ventilated air humming over their heads as constant white noise. He belongs in the city, on the streets of it, working it over and keeping it safe. "Perhaps locked away in a police file somewhere."

Samandriel hums. "He got a name?" he asks, his fingers already flying.

"Dean," Castiel says, cheeks flushing again in guilt. "It's the only one he gave me, and it may be a fake. But I'm willing to sort through anything that pulls up so that you don't have to."

Samandriel's grin turns welcoming and lopsided as he shrugs one shoulder, ducking his head. "'S no trouble, Cas," he says, grey eyes sparking as the screen lights up, before he turns it to one side so that Castiel can see as well. "Can you give me anything else? Physical characteristics? Could help with the police files, at least, and I can widen my search if needs be."

Castiel chews on his lower lip again, going through a mental checklist of all the things he's tried to notice about Dean. "He's over six feet tall," he hazards, hating how unsure he is because he's never actually stood in front of Dean to be positive of that – Dean's either been on his knees or standing outside the car, distorting Castiel's perspective. "Green eyes, brown hair."

Samandriel nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he enters in the search results. "Any other physical characteristics? Scars, tattoos?"

"No," Castiel breathes, shaking his head. "Not that I noticed."

Samandriel nods again, and pushes enter on the search results, his eyes scanning the screen as it begins to dig through arrest records to pull up as many results as he can. "What's this guy to you anyway?" he asks, a little too nonchalantly for Castiel's liking, but he could be paranoid – Gabriel had said the mole could be anyone, after all.

"Gabriel assigned me a new project," he says, honestly, because it's true. He's become very skilled over the course of his training at the half-lie. "I believe this man may be very useful in that – not just for me, but for the Angels in general."

Samandriel whistles low. "Well, good luck," he replies with a genuine smile that Castiel doesn't doubt is very sincere. The Angels don't make a habit of stabbing each other in the back, and Castiel trusts Samandriel, really, and believes in him to be a friend and a brother in arms.

He sighs, rolling his shoulders. "How long do you think this will take?" he asks, already bored. Machines, he finds, are boring things. They have patterns and codes that he thinks could be fascinating, but they tend to just be so _obedient_. Machines don't have loyalty, don’t have moral codes or honor that can change the tide under pressure, they don't see a pregnant woman or an innocent man and decide not to pull the trigger. People are fascinating to him, like that, seeing how much money it would take to make someone turn on their country, or kill their family, or assassinate a world leader – likes to wonder and imagine what kind of complex social constructs govern everyday life, how humans are never really free as soon as they start school, start training themselves to mold into a world that doesn't want them because they'll try and change everything.

Humanity is one giant machine constantly plugging along on the verge of a breakdown, and Castiel finds that more mesmerizing than any machine could possibly be.

Samandriel shrugs one shoulder, lips pursing out. "Could be a couple hours, could be a few minutes. Depends on how much the database finds that fits your specs." He checks his watch, sighing heavily. "I was gonna go grab lunch, anyway, you wanna come with?"

Castiel's eyes rake over him. Samandriel is a pleasant man, a good soul, a good Angel. He allows a slow smile to spread over his face and lets himself admire, guiltily, the small blush that that creates.

"Sure," he says, even and low, and pushes himself to his feet, buttoning up his suit jacket as he stands, and Samandriel matches him, rolling the cuffs of his sleeves down and slinging his jacket from the back of his chair and over his shoulders.

He grins, picking up a set of keys from the side of his laptop and tossing them into the air, catching them easily. "Great. I know just the place," he chirps happily, leading the way back towards the elevator and leaving his desk unattended, his computer faintly humming as the data mining does its work.

Machines might be boring to Castiel, but he can't deny there is a certain allure to them, when he comes back from a long lunch with Samandriel and finds eight flagged files waiting for him to see. He orders Samandriel to print them out for him and the younger man stands by the printer as he gathers the papers up, his grey eyes focused on the pages being spat out, and he helps Castiel sort them into different files to mark them down.

Some don't have pictures, but he immediately discards the ones that do that don't match Dean's face. He's left with four faceless files to have to pour through and see if he's gotten the right man, and he thanks Samandriel with another wide smile, shaking his hand firmly, and parts from the blushing man with a promise not to be a stranger.

He leaves the transport department, feeling more buoyed than he has in a while. Finally, he's getting somewhere.

 

 

"What the fuck were you _thinking_?" Sam demands, slamming his hands down onto his father's ornate, giant desk.

John sighs, letting his head rest back against his chair, and scratches absently at the scruff around his chin. "You might have to be more specific, son. Gettin' a little loopy in my old age."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talkin' about," Sam hisses, and as much as John wants to pretend otherwise, he knows it's true – there's only one thing, one subject, that gets Sam so riled up. "You sent a _hit_ out on that poor son of a bitch, and for what? Are you _deliberately_ trying to fuck up my surveillance on him?"

"Truthfully?" John replies with a raised eyebrow. "Yes." He stands, rolling his shoulders and shaking his hands out so that his suit lays flat across his broad chest, and shoves his hands into his pockets, slowly circling his desk. "You've been very distracted recently, Sam, and I'm not blind as to why."

Sam swallows, his words stuck in a meek protest in his throat, as John comes around the desk and stands directly in front of him. The man smiles, eyes sad, as he looks his youngest son up and down, before reaching up and chuffing Sam under the chin in a gesture that makes Sam want to reach for his weapon.

"Why are you so _fixed_ on Dean?" he asks, and Sam blinks because he doesn't think he's actually heard his father say Dean's name since he threw him out. "I thought I'd gotten rid of his taint in our family," he adds without waiting for an answer, eyes dragging up and down Sam. "Maybe I was wrong."

"He's my _brother_ ," Sam breathes, his throat tight. "And he's trying to get back into this, _Sir_. He's trying to make himself useful to you, I know he is."

John raises an eyebrow, stepping back. "Oh? Why do you think he'd change his tune now?"

Sam swallows, lifting his chin in defiance. "I told him about Jess," he says, watching as his father's eyes go flat, "about the wedding. I _want_ him there, Sir – I want my brother to be there when I get married, and I know he won't if you won't let him – and I know he's…he's _trying_ , but you just have to leave him the fuck alone!"

The low growl spills from John's mouth just before his fist slams down onto the table. "Damn it, boy!" he roars, but Sam doesn't so much as flinch – it was more than Dean ever did: whenever their father had said 'Jump' Dean didn't even ask 'How high?', just kept going until he was told it was enough.

It was never enough.

"Your cocksucker of a brother doesn't _belong_ in this family anymore," John says, the vitriol heavy in his voice as harsh as any yell or physical blow he could have dealt, and Sam swallows but remains steadfast. "He'd have to pull off some big fucking shit to even get my attention."

"He will," Sam whispers, sure, convinced, his fingers clenching by his sides. "I know he will. He's never…you know he'll never stop looking for some way to please you. To make you proud of him." John's harsh laugh stings more than Sam thought it would – somehow, even after all this time, he'd managed to convince himself that maybe his father had just been angry, that time and distance would soften him to Dean's situation. Apparently he was wrong. "I believe in him, Sir."

John's laugh rasps over his skin like iron wool. "Of course you do," he says, rocking back on his heels and turning away, and to Sam it feels just as final and wrong as watching Dean turn his back and trudge out into the city's slums, and Sam hates even more that he had just watched him go. "I hate to have to disillusion you, Sammy boy, but Dean isn't God, and he sure as Hell ain't a miracle worker – what do you think he can do, selling his ass and his mouth to the highest bidder, to earn anything from me than what I've already given him?"

Sam's fingers clench, and he grits his teeth. Dean wouldn't have to do that if John would just throw him a fucking bone – he knows it, John knows it, the whole fucking city probably knows it, but that doesn't stop Sam wanting to scream it at his father all the same. There's a difference between turning a horse out to wild pasture and shooting it in the leg before doing so.

But these words – he's said them a hundred times before, a million times, beat them against the walls of his room and yelled them at his father over the phone and prayed with all his heart that his brother might find a way to return to them – first without Sam's help, and then he'd realized just how ridiculous and unattainable that kind of redemption was, and then he's thrown what help he could Dean's way.

Now it just seemed to pile up the bodies around him, and it's Sam's fault.

He swallows, and instead of anything he wants to say, he mutters; "Dean's resourceful, Sir. You trained him to be smart. He'll find a way."

He can see the harsh shadows on John's face reflected in the big window that faces out to the lit-up city, and his father sighs, jaw working as he swallows. "All that training gone to waste," he sighs, and Sam has to leave soon or he's actually going to scream. "You're dismissed, Sam, if that's all."

Sam works his jaw, and his teeth hurt from clenching it so tightly. "Yes, Sir," he whispers, bowing his head a little thought John can't see, and he turns and stalks out of the room. His father may have allowed his hatred to blind him, unnecessarily, for his son's life, but Sam was going to help him, damn it.

If only he could find the son of a bitch.


	6. Six

Dean doesn't go back to Mary Boulevard for a few days, waiting on tenterhooks for Ash's messenger to reach him and unwilling to get himself into too much trouble or make himself any harder to find than usual until she gets there.

The graveyard is starting to look wonderfully neat again, the grass mowed and neatly trimmed, the heavier branches of overgrown cut and sheared back into something more reasonable, more like the grand arches of gentle watchmen than the strangling hold of overbearing guardians. He feels a strange sense of satisfaction, seeing the garden bloom under his normally as-far-from-green-as-you-can-get fingers.

It's so nice again that people are actually starting to visit it once more, wandering tourists and the few regulars who actually have someone buried in there, they come bringing bright wildflowers and small knitted crafts and little gifts for their dearly departed. It's…nice, in a way he hadn't expected, to see people wandering around the graveyard and the gardens and marveling at the peace and tranquility that Dean himself has managed to dig out for himself here – he doesn't mind sharing, in his respect.

"Are you the new gardener here?" one young woman asks, the kind that Dean would give way more than the time of day to when he was younger and hadn't understood just what it was about women that always felt like _'Not enough not deep enough come_ on _'_.

He smiles, shifting his weight, leaning one arm on the end of the long shovel he'd been wielding, and cocks an eyebrow, his grin wide when he can't help but tease. "What gave me away?" he asks, voice too gentle for mockery, and she blushes prettily and rolls her eyes at herself.

"I guess it's kind of an obvious question," she concedes with a nod, before holding her hand out for Dean to shake. "I'm Jody Mills. I'm in charge of coordinating events, and a friend of Bobby's here."

"Oh." Dean shakes her hand eagerly, his smile softening into something more welcoming. "Nice to meet you, ma'am. I don't suppose you're the one responsible for our more recent décor," he adds, curious despite himself. This is the first 'friend' of Bobby's he's even heard the real name of, let alone met.

She grins, throwing him a wink. "I'm not old enough to be a ma'am yet, am I?" she asks, joking and easy, and Dean laughs and shakes his head with a small smile. No, he supposes, she's not, and he lets his fingers flex along the shaft of the shovel, looking her up and down again. She's comfortable-looking, that balance between feminine and badass that Dean is always a total sucker for, leather jacket and good boots and tight jeans that flatter her shape. Very nice – and definitely not old enough to be a 'Ma'am'. "But yeah, that was me. I'm kind of a sucker for Angels."

Dean nods, feeling the small prickle at the back of his neck worsen. He's sure she doesn't mean it like that, but his guard's been up ever since that damned statue showed up at the church and Chuck had died the day before. He hasn't allowed himself to mourn for his friend's death beyond drinking his booze and thumbing through his manuscript (which is pretty damn good, if Dean's opinion means jack shit in the world of writing), but he still somehow resents that statue for it, like maybe it's a message from both sides closing in on him.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know, man, some of those cherubs and shit look pretty weak-ass."

Jody laughs, the skin around her eyes crinkling. "I suppose," she concedes with another small nod, her gaze turning appraising in a way that has Dean shifting his weight again, uncomfortable with the scrutiny for long. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I love what you're doing with the graveyard. You should be proud of yourself."

Dean blushes slightly, his eyes dipping down as he feels warmth blossom in his chest, for some reason more glad for those words than he could describe. "Thank you," he says, voice hoarse, and his throat feels tight when Jody smiles at him once again.

"Anyway, I'll admit there's an ulterior motive for me being here," she says after a moment, grinning lopsidedly in a way that makes Dean feel relaxed despite the loaded words, and he nods and gestures for her to continue. "My boss has been looking for a gardener for a really long time, and with your permission, I'd like to give him your name."

Both of Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Surely there's people more qualified," he hedges, unable to help thinking about landing another part-time gig once the job here dries up. One that would probably pay awesomely, if Jody's penchant for commissioning giant expensive statues was any indication.

She purses her lips, nodding her head from side to side. "Maybe, but I get the feeling you won't overcharge, and you seem to be doing the work simply for the sake of it, which makes you special. Anyway, you don't have to say 'Yes' if you don't want to."

Dean considers her for a moment. "Who's your boss?" he asks.

"His name's Fergus McCloud," she replies with a grin.

Holy shit. " _Crowley_?" he asks incredulously, and her eyes spark with laughter as her smile widens. Crowley is notorious – he's one of the biggest names in the city and he's known for not playing for either the Angels or the Eagles' pockets. He doesn't need them – if he could amass the manpower, Dean knows he could wipe both the Eagles and Angels from the slate with little effort.

Secret door number three.

Jody smiles at him, kind and motherly, and Dean blushes when he realizes she's waiting patiently for his answer.

Well, what the Hell, right? "Sure," he says, smiling back at her and nodding his head. "Why the Hell not?"

She laughs. "I like your attitude…?" She lets the question hang, asking for a name.

"Dean," he supplies, and she cocks an eyebrow.

"Dean…?"

He panics for a moment, searching for a last name that won't give him away (he's not used to actually being asked for a last name, most of his circles either know it, or don't care what it is), and Becky's nickname for him flashes, unbidden, into his head. "Matthews," he says weakly, hoping she takes his nervousness for simple embarrassment over forgetting something as commonly courteous as introducing himself.

She nods, smiling a little again. "Okay, Dean Matthews," she says with a wink, taking a step back towards the little door that leads back into the church. "Thanks for letting me talk your ear off for a while. I hope to see more of you soon."

"And you, Jody," Dean says, and means it. "It was nice to meet you."

"Don't be a stranger," she replies with a wink, before turning and strolling back into the church and leaving Dean alone in the graveyard.

_Huh_. Well, okay, so secret door number three is turning out to be quite promising. If Dean manages to fuck over either of the deals he's got going, then Crowley as a refuge couldn't be the worst possible thing ever, could it? Guy was a self-made man, which means he's smart, and if he's smart that also probably means he's ruthless, and Dean knows men like that. Hell, he sucks the cocks of men like that. men like that are _easy_.

'Sides, how bad can he be if he's got Jody working for him and likes to commission churches with pretty things? Dean's got a good sense for people, it's been said, and Jody had struck him as a decent sort – the kind he could call a friend, maybe. And unless Crowley's got a secret crush on Bobby Singer or something, his love of the arts is something Dean can appreciate, even if he can't quite understand it. Angels _do_ belong in a church, after all.

"So, Winchester," he mutters to himself, returning to his work, "what the fuck's the actual plan?"

Well. He could continue as he's going – put off actually making any sort of effort to get back into his father's good graces, miss Sam's wedding, and live out the rest of his life hiding away from people who don't want him dead, but want him scared enough and making sure that he's not going to be too much trouble. He could join the Angels, really fuck over his dad, and never see Sammy again.

Secret door number three.

He could help Castiel, help him find the mole, and kill an Angel spy in his father's ranks. If he does that, there's no way his dad can keep glossing over him like some uninteresting news article – he'll have to take Dean back, or at least let him attend the wedding, which is all Dean really wants at this point. The rest would just be gravy. And if it turns out to be an Eagle spy, well, Angels are pretty generous when they're grateful, right? He could still buy his way in, make a name for himself, then take their money and run off towards Crowley's estate. If he manages to fuck over his deal with the Eagles, he'll never get to see Sam again, but that door is really the only one that gives him half a shot.

He'll be walking a fine line – if Castiel figures out who he is, he's screwed, and if any of the Eagles' eyes and ears see him in cahoots with an Angel, he'll be killed on sight. If the mole catches wind of him and knows who he is (though he can't, it would have to be a new guy otherwise he wouldn't have gotten away with it so long, right? And the Angels would have noticed sooner, and Dean would have been informed, and -) and tells either Michael or John, he's fucked. He'll _have_ to run to Crowley just to keep his head, Angel protection and money and Eagle loyalty or not.

He supposes if Castiel gets too close he can always just suck out his brain cells through his dick again. There's a reason he's so good at distracting people.

Smirking to himself, Dean returns to his work, using the shovel to uproot a particularly stubborn tree stump half-grown into the path and forcing the little bricks up and into ugly lumps to accommodate its branches. He works well into the dark hours, using the small bug zapper in Rufus' cabin as light for the job until he hears someone clear their throat, and turns around, shoulders tense and guard up.

It's Mrs. Tran, and Dean straightens. "Please tell me you have good news," he says.

The woman smiles at him and hands him a plain manila folder. "This is all Ash could get on that Angel you were looking for," she says. "He told me to tell you as well that the firewall's – and I'm quoting here – 'tougher to break through than Satan's asscrack', but he's making headway."

Dean barks a laugh at that, putting the folder under his arm. "Thanks," he says sincerely. "Anything else?"

She shrugs one shoulder, eyes narrowed and gaze shrewd. "Don't you go dragging that young man into any of your foolishness," she warns, and Dean wants to scoff at her but he barely restrains himself. "Ash trusts you, and that's enough for me, but we both know he trusts a little too easily, doesn't he?"

Dean swallows, pushing his lips together tight enough to white out the edges, and nods. "I won't let the side down," he says, at a loss for anything else that won't give away what he's planning, and she nods, apparently satisfied.

"Good boy," she replies with another tight nod. "I'll be on my way then." With another swift turn she leaves the same way Jody had, and Dean huffs out a breath and stares down at the tree stump. It will wait until tomorrow, he supposes, and his fingers are itching to crack open the file and see what the Angel's hiding inside. The bug zapper is providing shitty lighting at best anyway and it would be just Dean's luck if he ended up being the only man alive to hurt himself like that.

With a sigh he puts away the shovel, bug zapper and his other tools into Rufus' cabin, locking it up for the night and trudging back into the bathrooms inside the church. He can't hear Bobby's old wheelchair creaking around and he doesn't hear Meg's heels clacking along the hallway, so he figures he's alone, and sneaks his threadbare towel and a change of clothes into the bathroom to get as close to a decent shower as he can find without going to a homeless shelter.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, wincing as he shrugs his sweat-sticky and dirty shirt and jeans back on. "I _really_ have to go to the fuckin' Laundromat."

He feels slightly better for the poor man's excuse for a shower, water droplets clinging to the small of his back and behind his knees as he walks back into his room and pulls out the folder he'd hidden beneath his mattress and settles down with a sigh, cracking open the second bottle from Chuck's stash.

"Castiel," he mutters to himself, kicking off his boots and settling his feet up on the mattress, holding up the folder so that the scant light from the single bulb shines down on it enough to read. "Age…twenty six, occupation – Principalities."

He pauses, breathes out. "Damn, dude, you're movin' up fast," he mutters, sitting up again. It's been a while, but if he recalls the man-made Angel ranks correctly, Principalities is just a step away from Seraphim, and to be a Seraph is to be in charge of your own damn division. Castiel is, according to this file, just a stone's throw away from commanding his own garrison.

He whistles low, rubbing the back of his neck. It's only been a few weeks since he first met Castiel, and had been told he'd just gotten his wings – who the fuck is this guy, to have moved up so quickly?

No listed mother or father – orphan? Dean frowns, flicking through the finely-inked pieces of paper. He'd talked about a mentor, but all the Angels required someone on the inside to help them crack their way into the organization – Castiel's young, barely older than Dean himself, and to have already made it so far is…

Well. It's impressive, Dean will give him that. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chewing gently as he lets his eyes scan over the rest of the information. Ash's firewall must have fucked up what information he could get, and Dean finds himself laughing and shaking his head that the man hadn't found out what Castiel likes to eat for breakfast or what his social security number is.

He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand – he's so tired. Tomorrow he'll go back to Chuck's yard, maybe try and sell the plot as well to anyone who will take it, salvage what little else he finds in the trailer. He'll buy bullets for his gun and actually go to a damn Laundromat, and then, maybe, Mary Boulevard: it'll be quick cash if Castiel doesn't show up, and if he does, well, maybe Dean can start actually getting his ass in gear and stop waiting for his friends to drop around him like flies.

He pushes the folder under his pillow and flops down with a heavy sigh, overworked muscles tired and sore when he stretches out and rolls onto his stomach. Sleep takes him quickly and he dreams of falling Angels and a black-eyed Devil lurking in the shadows.

 

 

The four files bring Castiel no answers he couldn't have already guessed at – two of them he discards after a few moments of perusing because the only records on there are for violent crimes that he can't bring himself to think of as belonging to Dean. There's a gut instinct telling him that Dean isn't a violent man, wouldn't be capable of something as cold as beating a woman and child or shooting a man point blank in cold blood. He hardly knows the man, of course, but honestly what position would a streetwalker have to get into to earn himself that kind of situation anyway?

In the other two, one has a prior for breaking and entering and hijacking a car, the second for robbing a liquor store and resisting arrest. Either of them could be Dean, and there's no mention of prostitution in either of them. Maybe Dean really is good at not getting caught, maybe not, but the first time they'd met he'd been in an abandoned car so Castiel can't put it past Dean to have been arrested for doing the same thing before.

But he can't bring himself to believe either file. They all seem like such _dishonest_ crimes and Castiel cannot put the man's beautiful face to any of them and make himself believe it. If that's not the case, though – it none of these men are Dean, then that means he's back to square one and has no information on the man going into their agreement – if there even is one to salvage.

Castiel is a persistent man, and he's known for going after what he wants if he believes it's the right thing. Befriending Dean and having his eyes and information would be invaluable; he is one hundred percent convinced of that fact. The only hurdle lies in convincing Dean of the same thing.

But what can he offer to the man? He must be doing well enough for money because he's turned down the offer of that before. Any man can be bought, Castiel knows, but it really takes a lot of zeroes to convince the good ones and Castiel isn't sure he can justify that, even to Gabriel's level of spendthrift lifestyle.

What else could he offer? Protection? Dean's already protected just fine – it's Castiel's position that would place him in jeopardy. A place in the Angels? Well, Dean's position profits him from being with neither side, and he would have to fight hard to earn the respect of men he used to go to his knees to for fifty bucks a pop.

Castiel's mouth twists and he closes the files with a heavy sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Fuck," he growls, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the way they crack and settle back after being hunched over for so long.

He pulls out his cell phone, staring at the black screen for a moment and looking at his reflection. He looks well rested – a trait that he knows never fit him when he was still earning his place with the Angels – even though his skin is paler than it used to be because he's been spending so much time indoors. He can't wait until he's a Seraph and on the streets again, where he belongs.

He slides open the phone and pushes Speed Dial three, holding the phone loosely to his ear.

"Castiel, my boy – what can I do ya for?" Gabriel's chipper voice comes through the other end, static and loud, and Castiel winces. He can hear the deep base thrum of music in the background, and irritably he scowls and glances at the clock. It's three in the fucking afternoon, what is Gabriel doing at a club?

"I need some advice," he replies flatly, and waits until Gabriel curses and fights his way out of the club to an alleyway where the door squeaks loudly and Castiel cannot hear the music anymore. At Gabriel's soft sound of assent, he continues; "What do you offer a man who can't be bought?"

Gabriel snorts, and Castiel can hear him kicking at a piece of trash. It's probably cold outside (Castiel hasn't been out to check) and he feels bad about forcing his mentor out into the cold, but this is important to him and their shared mission.

"Every man can be bought," Gabriel replies in such a way that Castiel can practically taste the eye roll. "Why do you think otherwise?"

"My…friend," Castiel begins, voice heavy with meaning as he rolls the word around his tongue. It doesn't feel right to call Dean a 'friend', really, if he is anything, "who I've asked to help me with my assignment…he doesn't want money as compensation, he doesn't want anything that I can see. I don't know what to do to enlist his help."

Gabriel hums, and Castiel can imagine him now, braced against a wall, head tilted back as he gazes up at the clouds and chews on the inside of one cheek. "You remember your first assignment, Cas? The bank?"

Castiel nods, frowning. "Yes."

"You remember those touch pads?" Gabriel presses, pausing for a moment and Castiel hears the chatter of people walking by. "The ones that looked like they used passwords but didn't?"

"Yes," Castiel says again, his frown deepening.

Gabriel pauses once more, as though for emphasis, and Castiel sighs, sitting back against his chair and trying to go over Gabriel's words to try and piece together what the elusive son of a bitch is actually trying to tell him.

"Don't try a password," he says after a moment, earning a pleased hum from his mentor. "Then, what?"

Gabriel laughs. "Try charming him," he replies with another sharp chuckle, making Castiel clench his teeth and roll his eyes. People are _difficult_ , damn it, he can't be blamed for not wanting to 'charm' them into liking or helping him. "Try getting to know him – get leverage, or get incentive. Every man can be bought, Castiel – you just gotta find what currency he's dealing in."

"Revenge," Castiel whispers, voice heavy with understanding, "or power."

"That's my boy." Gabriel's voice is proud and Castiel feels his cheeks hurting from the force of his smile – even after everything, getting to his feet on his own, he still values and cherishes Gabriel's judgment and kind words. He knows there is very little he could ever do on this Earth to repay Gabriel for all the things he's done for Castiel. "I gotta go – there's a lovely lady covered in glitter and nothing else just _begging_ for me. Talk to you later, little bro!"

Castiel grimaces, rolling his eyes, and hangs up without saying goodbye. He watches his phone until the screen dims, flipping it over in his hand and tapping the corner against his lower lip as he gazes back down at the small stack of files.

Revenge, maybe. Or power. Dean's the kind of man in a precarious position – he's bound to have been slighted by people along the way, or treated unfairly, or maybe he just has a beef, same as any red-blooded male.

Castiel just has to hope he's the petty type.

 

 

Dean kind of hates the nervous little stutter to his heartbeat when he sees that ugly yellow car slide up outside of his alley again. He waits just long enough to see the familiar face and flash of those too-blue eyes before he steps forward, circling the car to get into the passenger side door and glad for the warmth.

Castiel doesn't even acknowledge him – simply drives to that same dark alley and parks in the darkest part of it, letting his car idle to keep the heat going but shutting off the lights both inside and out of the car so that Dean can only see parts of his features in the dull glow of the lights on the dashboard.

They sit in silence for a long while, Dean staring at Castiel and Castiel staring outward, before the Angel takes a breath.

"I'm willing to help you," Dean says before he can speak, and Castiel's head turns so quickly the younger man is briefly afraid he might have snapped his neck at the motion, before he allows himself to settle against the passenger seat, kneading his palms across his thighs.

His brow furrows, a small crease between his eyebrows that Dean can just make out in the low light. "Why?" he asks, voice lower than Dean remembers it, and he allows himself to shiver at the sound of it, biting his lower lip. Castiel clears his throat, turning in his seat as much as he can so that he is facing Dean. "What made you change your mind?"

"I am willing to help you," Dean says again, swallowing hard and tilting his head back to rest against the cool glass of the window. He could still back out, right now – ditch the car and get the fuck outta dodge and go live in the country and never stick his neck out or make friends or risk anything and nothing wrong would happen anymore -. "But you gotta promise me you won't ask questions. I don't wanna dodge an interrogation about why I know the things I know, or where I learned this shit from, okay? I'm cool with us being just about total strangers."

Castiel's frown deepens, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he studies Dean for a long time in silence. Dean bears the weight of his gaze stoically, refusing to back down now that he's put his conditions out there – the less complicated this has to be, the better.

"Okay," Castiel finally says, and Dean releases the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I won't ask you anything about how you came to know any information you disclose to me, and I won't ask about your past." Another long pause – long enough that the hairs on the back of Dean's neck start to rise, a prickle along his spine that comes from years of knowing his back is being watched and waiting for the first mistake. "I just…I'd like to know why, if you're willing to tell me. Why did you suddenly choose to help me?" A small smile, wry and lopsided, ghosts across Castiel's face. "I'd have thought I'd have to convince you more."

Dean flashes a smile, shifting in place. "I, ah." He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, before sighing. "I have a real problem with people two-timin', you know? Like, this guy you're hunting down, he's either Eagle or Angel but playing for both teams? Spillin' secrets?" He shrugs one shoulder, figuring he's told enough of the truth to warrant a believable lie, and licks his lips. "Doesn't sit right."

Castiel blinks at him, before he smiles widely for a reason that Dean cannot guess. "Okay then," he says, nodding to himself. "I'm eager to listen to any information you can give me then, Dean."

"Okay," Dean sighs, nodding and pressing his lips together. "But not here. Too many eyes here."

Castiel frowns. "You said this place was hidden."

Dean rolls his eyes. "To quickies in the backseat and a cock down someone's throat, maybe, but not for anyone trying to keep a real secret." He taps the dashboard, sitting back. "Just drive. I'll direct you to where we should go. Somewhere actually secret."

Castiel gazes at him for a long moment, assessing and silent while Dean stares back, chin lifted in defiance and shoulders tensed. "No questions, Cas, remember?"

"Right." At once Castiel deflates with a heavy sigh, putting the car into reverse and backing out into the main street. "Of course. I'd almost forgotten."

 

 

For a reason Dean can't quite explain to himself, he drives Castiel to Chuck's trailer. He knows the place is under surveillance, or at least was up until a few days ago, and there's nothing that can be gained from bringing an Angel onto this kind of ground, but he can't help but think it would be a pretty 'Fuck you' to his father and everyone watching, to go inside with an Angel and spend a little alone time with it doing whatever-it-is he imagines they think he does to Angels in his alone time. Besides, Castiel isn't Chuck – he's a trained warrior and killer. He's a big boy; he can handle himself.

Castiel parks the car outside of the lot and Dean opens the gates for him to drive inside, and he pulls up next to the carcass of the Impala that was too broken and shitty for even the chop shop to want it. He gets out, slamming the door shut loud enough to make Dean wince as he stands by the Impala, thumb running over the star and sun symbol carved into her hood.

Castiel hesitates, and his fingers join Dean in brushing over the mark. "Eagle," he whispers, his eyes flashing to Dean, dark and suspicious.

"They sent a message," Dean says flatly, turning away. "The guy who used to own this lot is dead. It's perfect, and it's as safe as anywhere in this city is." He pulls out the two keys belonging to the outer gate and this trailer and opens the door. "Come on."

Castiel follows him in, looking around the cramped space with an expression devoid of emotion. "Do you live here?"

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "I'd offer you a drink but there isn't any," he says, sweeping his hands out to either side and pushing Chuck's old wheelie chair towards Castiel, taking the counter for himself and propping himself against it, his eyes on the slats covering the window to see any movement outside.

"That's fine," Castiel murmurs solemnly, like he means it, and takes a seat. He looks so ridiculously out of place here, all neat suit and stiff posture that Dean can't help but smile at him.

"Hey," he says, nudging Castiel's knee with the toe of his boot. "Relax."

"I'm sorry," Castiel replies, clearing his throat, his fingers flexing against his thighs as he continues to look around the place. "I wasn't…expecting things to move so quickly. And every time you and I have been alone…" He cuts himself off, cheeks pinking in a way that makes Dean grin, tilting his head to one side.

"Technically the first time we weren't alone," he reminds Castiel, which just adds another darker red to the blush. It's adorable, and so odd on the face of a man who'd pointed a gun at Dean's chest and told him to abandon a car while his mentor bled out in the backseat of said car that Dean can't even imagine that so little time has passed between that moment and this one. "Why don't you just…start from the beginning, Cas? And I'll tell you what I know – things to look out for."

Castiel smiles, teeth flashing. "Okay," he breathes, nodding to himself. "I would like names, and physical descriptions, if you can get them. Anyone you think might be Eagle or Eagle-loyalist that you've seen more than once on the Boulevard, and any characteristics I need to look for in a suspect."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "That's a pretty long damn list, Cas."

"Do you have somewhere to be?" the man replies coolly, lifting his gaze to fix on Dean's, and it feels like he's being pinned against the wall beneath that powerful stare. "I can compensate you for any business you might lose tonight, if that is bothering you."

"Hey, I said I was in, didn't I?" Dean snaps, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. "I was just warning you – I see a lot of Eagles, and I know a lot of Eagles. You're gonna have a very long damn list."

Castiel bares his teeth in a large smile. "I've got time."


	7. Seven

By the time the sun is peeking up over the horizon, lighting the lot and slanting through the breaks in the cheap blinds blocking the trailer interior from view, Castiel is starting to rethink trying to tackle this whole issue in one night. His eyes itch and are red from lack of sleep, and the notepad he'd brought with him is covered in sketches and names and ranks that Dean had provided.

He knows so _much_ , and it burns at Castiel that part of their bargain was that he wouldn't ask too many questions, but he feels this steel ball piling up inside of him that is telling him there is much more to Dean than he'd previously assumed. The sketchier Dean's character become, the greyer his motivations for helping Castiel, and the less sure he can be that Dean isn't planning some elaborate trick on him, or some kind of betrayal.

But he listens, absorbs with eager ears and tries to take everything with a grain of salt. He restates things to check information, uses all the tricks Gabriel taught him to weed out any deceit, and there's a look in Dean's eye that says he knows he's being played like that, but his stories remain solid, his information seems assured and factual, and Castiel feels at once much more confident and much less prepared than he had at the beginning of the night.

"A sure-fire way to tell," Dean finishes, heaving a sigh, "is if he makes an effort to show you his hands. Eagles are…they're funny, about that kind of thing. It's a really, really hard habit to break."

Castiel frowns up at him, chewing the inside of his lip, before he sighs as well and rubs his fingers over his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he says. "I've heard Eagles have their own – like Angels have wings, but." He shrugs one shoulder, catching Dean's look. "That symbol on the car outside – that's the symbol, isn't it?"

Dean nods, biting into his lower lip. "Yeah. The pentagram inside a ring of fire. 'S meant for protection."

"Protection from what?" Castiel asks, sounding genuinely curious and Dean fixes him with a look, carefully looking him up and down as though considering whether to answer or not.

Then, he smirks. "Possession."

Castiel's brow furrows again as he frowns up at Dean, but before he can ask any more questions the younger man slaps both palms down onto his thighs and pushes himself off of the counter. "Well, I'm beat, and starving."

"Oh." Castiel pauses for a moment, before he blushes and starts to gather up his many sheets of paper spread around like a little nest. "Yes. Of course. Thank you for all of your help, Dean – I'm sure it will prove to be invaluable."

Dean smiles, opening the door for Castiel to go through once he's done and locking the trailer door behind him. He watches as Castiel goes to his ugly little car – God, the thing's an even worse eyesore in daylight – and looks on as the man puts his notepad and briefcase into the backseat, before he hesitates, turning around with one hand still on the driver's side door.

"Is there really no way I can compensate you?" he asks, and Dean wants to snort because wow, if any neighbors really care about what went on last night then Castiel sure is helping them along, but he grins and shrugs one shoulder. "Really, Dean? Money? Shelter? Nothing?"

It must be Castiel's disbelief that sways him, Dean thinks, because he cannot find a good reason in the moment for why he replies; "You could buy me breakfast."

Castiel relaxes, smiling and nodding, and jerks his head towards the other side of his car for Dean to get in.

This is bullshit. Dean has money enough to buy himself food, Goddamn it, and there's a huge difference between meeting an Angel under the cover of darkness and letting those watching believe whatever they'd like to believe, but this is going out in broad daylight, lacking sleep and in rumpled and dirty clothing, and it's an _Angel_ he's having lunch with. Of course, no random civilian would know from one look that it was the Winchester's disgraced son and an Angel eating together, but all it takes is one wrong set of eyes to fuck this entire operation.

But. If someone's already seen them together, there could be a hit on the guy – and Dean likes him, oddly enough, with his constantly pinched brow and the way his blue eyes light up when he discovers a new piece of information – the way his jaw clenches when he tilts his head back when Dean goes down on him and the taste of him when he -.

  1. Dean sighs, sitting heavily into the passenger's seat and slamming the door behind him. He's not going to get sucked into some fucked up _Romeo and Juliet_ remake, thank you very much.



Castiel could be the target of a hit – it would be purely gentlemanly of Dean to make sure he at least makes it through breakfast without a bullet in his head. At least, that's what he tells himself when he allows Castiel to drive them to the gate, and steps out to unlock it and close it up behind the gross yellow car before sliding back inside.

He grimaces, shifting in place, and lets his eyes linger on the carcass of the Impala as Castiel drives away. He supposes, if he had more money and a lot more time, he would put in the effort to restore her, make her shine again. Maybe if this whole debacle with the mole and the Angels plays out just right, he will get that opportunity – make her into his new project, a beautiful car worthy of his regained position in his father's organization.

He smiles to himself at his ridiculous fantasies, and turns his attention back to where they're going. Castiel hasn't asked directions yet but he seems to know where he's going, and Dean is content to sit back and people watch as they drive by.

 

 

John flicks the corner of his paper back, eyebrows raised and an unimpressed scowl on his face as he takes in the flushed, harried look of his secretary, the younger man hurriedly approaching his desk and setting his satchel down by his side, breathless and red-cheeked from the chill air outside.

"You're late," John says, folding the paper up. "This is the third time this week, Mr. Pike. I'm starting to think it's a habit."

The younger man blushed harder, biting his lower lip and shaking his head, his hands flattening on the edge of John's desk, fingers splayed out wide to show he isn't hiding anything. "I got caught up. A breakthrough. Maybe."

John raises an eyebrow, and motions for him to continue.

"Overheard a conversation going on, you know, between the Angels. One of them's asking after Dean."

The older man frowns, his lips pressing together hard until they're almost invisible underneath the bristles of his beard. "That…that is very interesting," he says, rapping his knuckles against the desk in thought, content to let his secretary squirm and regain his breath under his steady glare. "When did you hear this?"

"Yesterday," Pike replies, nodding to himself. "And I'm not sure it _was_ Dean, but I heard the first name, and he mentioned wanting to know about priors? I don't think Dean has a record, but if he does and the Angels found it, they'd know who he is." He pauses, licking his lips, his eyes finally dipping down and breaking gazes from John's flat stare.

"And you thought I should know about this, why?" the older man asks, sounding bored already as he tilts his chair to the side far enough to lean back and fold one ankle across his other knee, fingers lacing together and resting on his stomach.

Mr. Pike licks his lips again, fidgeting. "Dean knows a lot of secrets, Sir," he says after a moment, eyes dropped and shoulders hunched over, submissive and small. "And the Angels have a lot of things they can offer a man who has nothing left to lose."

John cocks his head to one side, before he huffs a laugh, smiling and turning away. "You sound like Azazel," he says, almost fondly, turning his eyes out to the slowly wakening city. He brushes a hand over the scruff of his beard, wincing and rubbing at his arm to work feeling back into the stiff fingers, stretching his legs out and sighing. "What you fail to understand, Mr. Pike, is that Dean has been trained just as everyone here has been trained – if there is nothing to lose, then there is nothing to stay for, and even a beaten dog knows when to give up and slink back home."

He turns his chair back, meeting the steely grey eyes of his secretary and secret agent. "I've taken away everything from him – his job, his safety… If I can convince Sam to stop helping him, I'll have taken away that as well. It's only a matter of time before my little failure gives up and leaves this damned place."

Mr. Pike's mouth twists, and he nods, sitting back. "I understand, Sir," he says, voice determinedly flat and giving nothing away. "How am I to proceed with the Angel Dean might be working with?"

John waves a hand, already disinterested. "Kill him if you need to; leave him alone if you don't. I doubt Dean knows anything that is even useful anymore," he says. "But watch your own back, kid – I'd hate to lose you. You're a good asset."

A smile, faint and fleeting, ghosts across the younger man's face. "Yes. Well." He stands, clearing his throat, and hoists his satchel up over the jacket of his dark suit, straightening the cuffs as he stands up to his full height – he knows when he's being dismissed, the same as anyone under John's command. "I will try not to be late again, Sir."

"See that you do," John replies with another disinterested wave, watching the small man scurry back out and towards where his office lies, down the hall. Almost immediately, a familiar shadow melts into view from the back of the room and John sighs. "What do you make of it?"

Azazel hums softly, taking the recently vacated seat opposite John and kicking his feet onto the table, his hands spread out in an open and accepting gesture. "It's like you said – we've taken everything away from your little whore that we can." He sighs softly, tilting his head back to stare at the gilt ceiling. "I don't like to think of it, but we may have pushed too hard, too fast. It might have made him…" He pauses, grimacing at the word, "desperate."

"We don't tell our whores about our nagging wives," John replies with a one-shouldered shrug, pursing his lips out and tapping his laced fingertips against his mouth. "Dean should know better than to go to their side – if he does, he knows that we'll kill him. He isn't stupid."

"We could send another message," Azazel suggests, but John shakes his head.

"We have very little idea of where he is now," John replies, aggravated, huffing. "Not even Sam can find him."

There is a pause, before Azazel's golden eyes light up as he grins again. "We could send that Angel of his a message," he says with a wicked smile, which grows when John turns to him with an impressed look on his face. "Cut off the source at the quick. He's probably using a secret identity, anyway – I wonder how the little featherhead will react knowing he's working with the Eagles' disgraced son?"

John smiles slowly, snapping his fingers together and pointing at Azazel. "Brilliant," he declares, slapping his other palm against the table. "I love it. Make it so. Preferably before he can really blab anything that hurts us."

Azazel grins widely, standing up with a flourish. "I won't let you down, Sir," he says with an imaginary hat-tip, and John nods to him before watching the retreating back of his second-in-command and long-time business partner. Azazel is a ruthless man, but he understands simple things like loyalty and not to spit on the hand that feeds you – something that, unfortunately, neither Sam nor Dean could learn.

Sam would do well to serve for a couple of years under Azazel, learn the ropes from the more visceral side of the business. Dean had gone into that line of work early, but John quickly decided he was too soft-hearted, and definitely unsuited to the kind of ruthless killing and hunting that John required from Azazel's men.

Such a disappointment. The idea that Dean might even now be trying to claw his way back into John's good graces as Sam so vigorously believes it almost laughable – as though Mary's first, gentle son could ever be what John requires of him.

He turns back to gazing out of the window, wriggling his fingers over his stomach and flexing his hands to encourage blood flow again – the office is damned cold, almost freezing in front of this giant window, and John makes a note to tell housekeeping to turn up the damn heat. There's no reason for him to freeze like the neglected street rats on the ground below, after all.

 

 

The car pulls to a halt in a small parking lot, snapping Dean's attention back to the situation at hand, and he sits forward, raising an eyebrow at the small, flashing neon sign that greets his eyes. It's a Mom & Pop-like diner, complete with zig-zagging red and yellow paint and one of those big posters that looks like it was hand-drawn by chalk on the side of the wall listing the day's specials that Dean doubts have been changed in the past forty years.

He steps out, whistling low as he breathes in deep and receives the delicious smell of frying meat and coffee in return. " _Nice_ ," he hums appreciatively, secretly pleased for the proud little smile that graces over Castiel's features. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a joint like this."

Castiel smiles, shrugging one shoulder. "I like the burgers here," he says by way of an explanation, leading the way inside once his car is locked and he gestures for Dean to follow. "I've been coming here for as long as I can remember, anyway."

"Wow, so you're a regular local," Dean comments, unable to stop the nervousness creeping into his voice. He supposes it would be good for Castiel to appear at a familiar haunt, but Dean is _not_ familiar here and he doesn't need to be mixing with a crowd he can't anticipate, around people he can't read or assume about. But he forces his shoulders to remain lax and lets his fingers trail over the butt of his gun where it sticks out of the back of his jeans, and follows Castiel inside.

The smell within is even better, sweet under layers of pastry and apple filling joining the scent of frying meat and potatoes crackling happily in oil. A petite waitress greets them with a warm, familiar smile, long ringlets of brown hair falling around the front of her light blue shirt as she chirps a greeting and grabs two menus for them, directing them to a table by the corner that, thankfully, doesn't have any windows nearby.

"Can I start you with some drinks?" she asks, pulling out a pen and pad of paper from the white apron ties around her waist, and Dean fixes her with his most charming smile – force of habit, he's never been able to stop even long past the point when he'd discovered he hardly ever swings the way of women anymore.

"I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks. With milk." She smiles and jots down his order, turning to Castiel, who echoes it.

"Alright, I'll give you guys a sec and be right back with your coffees!" And she turns and strides briskly away.

Dean can't even bring himself to look after her, too tired and too enamored with the bright, laminated pictures of their food on the menu to even care about that kind of hunger. Is stomach is rumbling almost too loudly, demanding and uncomfortable, and he knows as soon as food comes he's probably going to start shoveling it into his mouth like some kind of animal, but he can't care.

He quickly decides on the Grande Breakfast Platter, before folding his menu up and tapping the edge absently against the table. When he looks back up, he finds Castiel staring at him, and he can't stop the way his cheeks blush a little and he dips his eyes down, shifting in place. "What?"

Castiel blinks, as though pulled from a trance, and he shakes his head, looking down sternly to his menu. "Nothing," he replies, and Dean gets the feeling that he means it even though he still wants to demand an explanation. "You said I wasn't allowed to ask questions, so I'm trying to figure out what I can simply from observing you."

…Oh. Dean swallows, sitting back and putting his menu between the salt and pepper shaker, before he returns his hands to fold together on the top of the sticky table, fidgeting with them together while he tries to weigh the pros and cons of asking his next question; "And what do you think you've come up with?"

Castiel is distracted from answering by the return of their waitress with coffee, which they both gratefully accept and Dean pours a hearty amount of milk into his before taking a sip, grimacing at the heat of it because he didn't fully let it cool. Castiel, though, seems not to even feel the heat, as he pours the rest of the milk in and tosses it back like a shot.

While he drinks, Dean gives his food order, and Castiel gives his – "The Barbeque Burger, please, and some more coffee" – right after, sending the waitress scurrying away again and leaving them alone, and Dean fixes him with another expectant look.

Castiel's cheeks redden, the older man biting the inside of his cheek as he fiddles with his empty coffee cup. "I find myself…drawn to you," he admits after a moment, and Dean blinks because honestly that's not what he'd expected to hear. "You are very charming, and I think you are very charismatic – and good at distracting people." His smile, briefly, turns sly and Dean smirks at him in return. "I don't think you always were what you are now, though."

Dean's smile fades, and he sits back. "How do you mean?"

"I mean…" Castiel hesitates, pausing long enough for the waitress to come back and refill his coffee cup and bring a new little pot of milk, which he smiles and thanks her for, before she leaves and he continues with a heavy sigh. "I can't really explain it. I just…" His eyes track over Dean, not dark and lust-filled like the looks Dean is used to getting, that Dean can warp and work to his own advantage, but assessing, sizing him up as an enemy or an ally, Dean's not sure, but it makes him more uncomfortable than any filth whispered into his ear and any taste left behind in his mouth ever has. "I look at you and I feel _potential_ , Dean, something absolutely extraordinary."

Dean laughs, having to cover up the warmth that settles in him that he doesn't want to look at too closely and doesn't want to explain. "What is this, a recruitment pitch?" he teases, throwing one arm along the back of the booth and fixing Castiel with a smile that feels strained to him.

Castiel blinks, and seems genuinely confused at Dean's answer. "No," he says, brow furrowing, his fingers curling lightly around the handle of his coffee cup. Then, his shoulders slump, and he flashes teeth in a smile that looks self-deprecating and almost forlorn. "No, it's not." He takes a sip of the hot coffee again, before he sets the cup back down and shakes his head. "I don't think I can convince you to do something you don't want to do, Dean – and I also think that if you did want to be an Angel, nothing would have stopped you and you'd be well into the ranks by now."

For a moment, there is a silence, Dean's eyes darting over Castiel's face to try and see if there's even a hint of a lie or teasing in it. All he gets is open honesty – "Wow," he says quietly, "you really believe that, don't you?"

The older man frowns. "Yes," he replies, nodding one, emphatically, "I believe you are capable of doing whatever you want to do, Dean." He takes another long pull from his coffee cup, almost finishing the drink off in one swallow, and Dean presses his lips together and turns his face away so that he doesn't have to look Castiel in the eye. "Has no one ever told you that?"

"Told me what?" Dean hedges, knowing what Castiel is really asking, but he can't bring himself to talk about this kind of thing – it hits too close to home, and Dean can't even listen to such faith placed in his character by a man who only knows Dean because he paid him to. It's just…wrong. _Wrong_.

"That you are capable, that you are amazing," Castiel replies, and it honestly hurts to hear such sincerity in the tone of a stranger, an _enemy_.

Dean bites his lower lip and catches the eyes of their waitress as she brings their food over, practically deflating with relief and honest gratitude at the delicious meals she sets before them. Dean thanks her and then heartily digs in, moaning at the taste of the hash browns, and the bacon? Fucking _perfect_. He throws himself fully into enjoying this meal, ignoring the weight of Castiel's gaze on him as he eats, because he's not willing to continue their conversation and honestly? This food is amazing – better than Dean's had in months and will likely have for a long time coming.

He finishes the food in record time, finally sated and able to feel the burning beginnings of heartburn, but honestly it was so good he can't even bring himself to regret it. Castiel is still toying with his burger, licking up traces of sauce from his fingers, and Dean stares in silence before he realizes that he's staring and clears his throat, getting to his feet.

"Thanks for the food, Cas," he says because he's relatively confident that Castiel isn't going to be shot up in this diner (and if he checks the guy's car as he heads out then that's his business), and stands awkwardly as the man fixes his wide gaze on him.

Castiel swallows quickly, wiping his hands and mouth and Dean decidedly ignores the way he licks at his own lips like he can taste the grease and sauce on Castiel's mouth. "Oh," he says, sounding disappointed and guilty and Dean can feel the little bit of himself that is always full of shame grow a little. "Of course. Thank you for all your help."

Dean forces a smile, and knocks his knuckles against Castiel's shoulder. "Don't…ah, don't be a stranger," he says, not even sure why he says it, but honestly he looks at Castiel and feels warm – feels hopeful. Castiel is his only tie to winning back his place in the world, and if he happens to get along with and like the man himself, then that's just dangerous cyanide icing on the ticking time bomb cake that is his life.

Castiel smiles at him, earnest and bright-eyed, and nods in agreement. Dean clears his throat, straightening his jacket to make sure it covers the bulge of his gun, and waves at the waitress as he vacates the diner.

A quick check to Castiel's car finds it relatively untouched and unmarked, and he can't see any red blinking dots or weird bulges on the underside, so he calls it safe enough and pulls up the collar of his jacket, braced against the chilly wind, and ducks his head down as he heads back towards the church. If he's lucky he can probably catch a few hours of sleep before he's roused into working again.

Maybe he'll get some good news from Ash. If not, he'll try and go to Mary Boulevard again, ask around, let the girls whisper in his ear and try and get the johns happy so they'll talk to him. Information is power, now, and right now Dean can use all the power he can get.

Maybe Castiel will find him again tonight. Maybe he'll bring more good news, or maybe he'll bring a hundred and stuff it into Dean's back pocket as his other hand reaches around to undo his jeans and shove them down his thighs.

Dean smirks to himself, shaking his head. Well, a man's allowed to have his little fantasies, right?

 

 

Castiel is so wiped from spending all night with Dean that he almost doesn't notice Gabriel coming into his office until the man's heavy hand comes down onto his shoulder, snapping him out of his trance-like state.

"Castiel!" Gabriel crows, his golden eyes gleaming as he forcibly turns Castiel's chair around, looking him up and down. Then, his smile turns into something more like a lewd smirk. "Good night?"

"I was working," Castiel bites back, shoving himself up out of his chair and away from his office, knowing Gabriel will follow as he heads to the break room with the (blessedly) well-stocked coffee machine. He's already forced his way through about three cups and shows no sign of slowing down.

Gabriel hums, leaning against the counter where the coffee machine sits while Castiel helps himself to his next cup. "Anything good?" he asks, voice softening now into genuine interest, and Castiel nods. "Good. Any leads then?"

"Possibly," Castiel replies, stirring a sachet of sugar into the steaming liquid and taking a sip. "It's slipped into the observation stage now – something I find myself lacking motivation for," he admits, grimacing at the heat burning the roof of his mouth as he takes a large swallow.

Gabriel pauses, looking his newest fledgling up and down. "You wanna get out of here and talk about it?" he asks, and Castiel turns to fix him with a look, making the older man shrug and turn his face away. "Look, just don't burn yourself out too fast, okay man? You're the brightest star I got."

Castiel frowns. "All of your fledglings are promising," he argues, "or you wouldn't have picked them." Gabriel doesn't answer, so Castiel sighs and takes another long pull from his coffee cup. "Is there anything -?"

"Castiel!" The two of them break apart as Samandriel appears in the doorway to the break room, out of breath and looking slightly panicked. "Something's happening. You need to – I need to talk to you."

Castiel frowns, setting his cup down and following his friend and colleague as Samandriel pulls away from the break room, leaving Gabriel behind as he follows the younger man back into his own office and closes the door behind them. "What is it?" Castiel asks, worried about what could make the normally easy-going and chipper Angel so worried and flustered.

"I was at my desk this morning and I realized something," Samandriel says, his fingers flexing and rubbing together in front of his chest, his breathing too slow and deep like he's trying to get it back under control. "Someone's managed to hack into our database. They took some files, copied others. I wanted to warn you."

"What did they take? Have you told Michael?" Castiel asks, dread curling up hot and heavy in the base of his spine. Samandriel is a gifted hacker, and if he's worried for Castiel's sake then there must be something to be worried about – something that he couldn't trace back, something important.

Samandriel shakes his head, rubbing his hands over his face and back through his dirty blond hair. "No, not yet – I'm still running a tracer on the files, want to see if I can find them myself. But they…" He swallows, shaking his head again. "Whoever took them, they copied your file, and they took one of the records you were looking at yesterday."

"They took my file?" Castiel asks, his eyes widening in worry. Why on Earth…? "Which files? The ones about Dean?"

Samandriel shakes his head. "Only one of those – and they took others, that you didn't look at either, but I can't help thinking they're all connected somehow. Like…" He reaches out, settling a hand against Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Please, _please_ be careful, whatever your assignment is, whoever this guy is that you're looking for or working with, I can't help thinking this is connected somehow. And if that's the case then this guy might not be who he says he is."

The younger man's grey eyes are dark and earnest, and Castiel finds himself nodding, tongue snaking out to lick at his lips as he reaches up and pulls Samandriel's hand away, curling his fingers around the other man's palm for a brief moment before letting it drop. "I understand," he says gravely, nodding again.

Samandriel smiles, relieved and bright-eyed again. "Good. I'm glad," he replies, pulling his hands back to hang by his sides again, before he takes a step back as though to make for the door. "I'll let you know if the tracer finds anything -."

"Samandriel," Castiel murmurs, reaching out to take hold of the younger man's arm. Samandriel's sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows so that all Castiel touches is bare skin, Samandriel's body surprisingly cool to Castiel's coffee-warmed fingers. "You have to tell Michael."

All he gets in response is a frown, Samandriel's grey eyes running down to where Castiel's hand is gripping him tight enough to leave a red mark behind when he remembers himself, pulling away, swallowing hard. "Of course," he says, uncharacteristically quiet, teeth sinking into his lower lip. "Watch yourself out there, Castiel – I don't want you getting into any trouble."

Castiel blinks, but before he can ask just what Samandriel means by that – what he could possibly be talking about in the layers of his words and his tone – the younger man has pulled his door open and disappeared through it. Gabriel slinks in not long after, closing it behind him with one final look to the younger fledgling's retreating back.

"What was that about?" he asks, a little too casually, and Castiel has to hide a smile that turns into one of gratitude when Gabriel hands him a new cup of coffee, this one with steamed milk sitting on the top and smelling faintly of cinnamon.

It's also a decent drinking temperature, though Castiel still winces at the burn to his oversensitive tongue. "Someone got into our database, stole some files on me and on my current mark," he explains, making Gabriel's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "I only looked into those files yesterday," Castiel continues, voice softening, thinking aloud. "I can't be sure if one action pre-empted the other, but there were others taken, apparently, that I didn't even see. Someone's trying to erase my mark from our database."

"Is this the guy you asked me about yesterday?" Gabriel asks, eyes too-knowing and too-seeing as he looks Castiel up and down, and it feels a little redundant to nod but Castiel still does. "This wouldn't happen to be someone I've met, would it?"

Castiel blushes, looking down. "Not…actively?" he hedges, earning an unimpressed look from his superior. "He works on Mary Boulevard – I figured a man like that would have an eye and ear to the ground, let me know if someone was talking about mixing up with both Eagles and Angels. So far he's proved remarkably useful in detecting them – I just need a suspect now."

"Mary Boulevard," Gabriel echoes, his eyes widening. " _He_? You're putting our trade secrets in the hands of the whore?" he asks, sounding surprised, but Castiel cannot detect any disgust or derision in his tone – maybe he doesn't want to look too closely, but Gabriel seems almost impressed.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "He's the most unbiased man I've ever met," he defends simply, licking his lips. "And he's willing to help me."

"For a price," Gabriel finishes, letting out another shocked sound when Castiel merely shakes his head. "Why, then?"

"Honestly? I don't know," the younger man replies, shaking his head, "and I'm not allowed to ask. I figure as long as it remains uncomplicated, then it doesn't particularly matter. A motive doesn't justify an action any more than a lack of one does, I've found – he told me he simply doesn't like someone being two-faced, and I'm willing to believe him." He sighs, taking another sip of his coffee. "And like I said before; he's proving to be very eager to help me, and very useful. What does it matter if the files I looked at are gone? Who could possibly hurt me here?"

"Castiel, I don't think you quite get the implications here," Gabriel says, pinching the bridge of his nose between both fore- and middle fingers, sighing heavily as though this entire conversation is trying the last of his patience. He looks so serious that for a moment Castiel allows himself to be genuinely worried. "If this guy – this whore you've hired – has a file with us already – _outside of police records_ – then chances are he's caused us trouble at some point or another." Castiel frowns, head tilting to one side, and Gabriel shakes his head, exasperated. "I taught you to be smarter than this, Cas. This guy might be an Eagle or Eagle loyalist, for all we know."

Castiel's eyes widen, and he shakes his head adamantly. "No," he replies, voice low and tight and he can't quite understand the anger that swells in him – he's just unable to picture it, picture _Dean_ , all flirty smiles and charm, being the cold killer that an Eagle was, the _enemy_? No, no he can't imagine it, can't accept that. "No – I. There were no hits in the files, nothing mentioning -."

"Our archives, or just the police records?" Gabriel presses, shaking his head again and looking almost pitying at Castiel's adamant rejection of his words. "Think about it, Cas – how does he know so much about Eagles?"

"He…" Castiel turns away, setting his coffee down. His fingers feel shaky and he feels unsteady. "He said he had Eagle clients, said that they liked to talk." He growls, slamming his fist down into the side of his office wall. _Stupid_. Naïve. He'd been so _naïve_.

Gabriel's hand settles on his shoulder, reassuring and gentle. "Hey, Castiel, it's okay – it's okay, we can still fix this."

"It can't have been him," Castiel murmurs after a moment, raising his head and ignoring the pitying look Gabriel is sending his way. "No, I mean -." He lets out a frustrated breath, turning away and straightening up so that Gabriel's hand has to fall away. "He can't have been the one who hacked into the files – he's not…" He gestures vaguely with his hand. "He doesn't even have access to a computer."

"That you know of," Gabriel says, too gently.

Castiel shakes his head. No. No – even with this new suspicion, he still stands by his original assessment of Dean – Dean is a lover of the classics. The old cars, the worn leather and aged look to everything he owns. He doesn't seem like the kind of man to hack into computers and learn the inner workings of a matrix or how to dig behind a firewall.

"No," he finally whispers again, decided. "He must be getting help. Somewhere."

"Maybe," Gabriel concedes, nodding when Castiel lifts his eyes to meet those of his mentor. "What are you thinkin'?"

"If he is an Eagle loyalist," Castiel says slowly, frowning, "then what in the world is he doing working an Angel dock?"

Gabriel shrugs one shoulder, pursing his lips. "Like you said, he says men like to talk when they're happy. Maybe _he's_ playing doubles and wants to get Angel secrets -?"

Castiel shakes his head. It doesn't make _sense_. In their entire time together, Castiel has never gotten the feeling that he's being lied to – and he's pretty damn good at seeing it in other people. Dean had never wanted to be asked about his past, so Castiel had done his best not to ask, but every other question he _knows_ had been answered as honestly as Dean was willing to answer.

So why the deceit? Why work in such a dangerous place for him as an Eagle if he didn't have enormous gain for it?

Castiel turns back to his computer, ignoring Gabriel's half-hearted 'Good luck', and tears out the few unwritten-on pages of his notepad from the night before and rips the pages free, spreading them out in front of him. On one page he writes 'Angel', on another, 'Eagle', and on the other side of the 'Eagle' page he writes 'Neither'.

He has to look at this objectively, and examine the evidence.

Dean has given no indication either way that he works for either Angel or Eagle – in fact, he'd tried to convince Castiel that the rat might be an Angel loyalist, and not an enemy like Castiel had assumed. Sighing, he puts that point onto the 'Neither' page.

He works Angel docks. Surely that makes him more 'Angel'. Frowning, Castiel writes that down – but none of the Angels have heard of him, and Angels tend to frown upon the homosexuality thing, which Dean has made it clear is the need there that he is there to satisfy. So, surely that would mean he's appealing to a market that doesn't necessarily exist? Unless there are a lot of closet cases in the Angels aside from Castiel himself (which might be true, he's new, there's no way he could possibly know that), then that points more towards the 'Eagle' orientation.

He already exists in the Angels' database – that can mean he exists as either an Angel loyalist with his information, or he's an Eagle loyalist who's committed multiple offences against the Angels. But there's no way of knowing that for sure, so with another dramatic sigh Castiel pencils that point into the 'Neither' side of the page.

He sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair, mouth pinched and eyes too tired to even make sense of his lazy scrawling writing. "This is ridiculous," he mutters to no one in particular, rolling his eyes as he settles his chin on his hand and looks down at the few points he's gathered so far. There is another option, he knows – he can simply ask. Dean won't have to tell him, but surely if he has anything to hide, then he won't tell Castiel and that will be answer enough?

The problem is that if Dean is working for someone, and Castiel blows his cover, it could mean trouble for more than just himself. He remembers Gabriel's words; "One hand often doesn't know what the other is doing". Maybe Dean is an Angel, and Castiel simply isn't of the pay grade enough to know about it? Maybe Michael knows about Dean's presence on the docks and has simply not done anything about it because Dean has never been a problem to them.

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of everything Dean had told him about Eagles. Does he always show his hands? Castiel frowns, trying to remember – he can't. He's never seen any hint of the Eagles' mark on Dean's skin either, but to be fair he hasn't seen much of the man's bare skin at all.

Castiel sucks in a breath, eyes opening up a little wider as he sits forward. Well. _There's_ an option. If Dean has that mark anywhere on his body, there's an easy way to find it. His cheeks flush guiltily even thinking about it, leftover arousal from just the thought of the man stirring low in his gut – it's kind of a win-win, isn't it? Castiel will get his answers, Dean will get some extra money (that he keeps claiming he doesn't need, but Castiel keeps seeing him scrounging for money and he seems to be down on his luck, maybe he's being paid by someone else, maybe an Eagle is sponsoring him _stop it Castiel stop_ -) and, yeah. The more he thinks about it, the more he's convinced that this is actually a pretty damn good idea.

It doesn't hurt that the rest of him is in hearty agreement at the prospect of sex – of finally touching more of the man, feeling him up close, tasting his mouth and feeling him between his legs and letting Dean show him just how amazing the rest of him is. If he's half as good with his mouth as with other parts in his body then Castiel knows he's in for a Goddamned treat.

He swallows, pressing the heel of his hand against his rapidly hardening cock. Goddamn it. He needs to stop this.

His fingers flex, and he digs his heels into the carpeted floor and rips up the notepad paper and throws it away. He feels like his skin is buzzing, and that might be the caffeine or it might be the anticipation of tonight, he's not sure, but he's excited – tonight, tonight he'll go try and find Dean again, get the answers he needs before he moves forward.

After all, the man had told him not to be a stranger. Castiel smiles, shaking his head at himself, and gets back to trying to complete some semblance of normal work before he can clock out and head on his way.

 

 

"I am a genius! You may all bow in my presence and bask in the glory of my brilliance!"

Dean cracks up laughing, rolling his eyes and turning around just in time for Ash to barrel into his arms in a tight hug. He thumps the other man on the back, still laughing, and his cheeks hurting from smiling so wide as Ash draws back with an equally large grin.

"I take it that means you have good news for me?"

"Only the best," Ash replies with a flourish of his hands. It's early afternoon in the Roadhouse and there isn't a patron in sight, since technically the place doesn't open until five. Dean has seen Jo scurrying about once or twice, but she seems to be avoiding him and normally that would worry him, but truthfully he's here to see Ash and is pleased that the other man seems so eager to see him as well. "I managed to crack their defenses. Dean Winchester is no more!" He snaps his fingers, letting out a soft 'whoosh'ing sound that makes Dean smile, internally wincing at the loud declaration of his full name.

"Really? That's awesome, man!" Dean replies, pulling Ash into another hug. "You wiped my slate clean?"

"And then some." Ash's eyes twinkle dangerously and he grins. "I happened to get the info on anyone who's looked at your records, too – people to look out for, you know? Anyone who's looked at your files in the last six months, I got their IP addresses and their names."

Dean blinks, frowning. "Is that list long?" he asks, not quite understanding how Ash could even possibly do that, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ash's mouth twists and he gives a small shrug, lips pursing. "There's one solo visit and another guy who's been watching your files for a while. Thing is, he's listed as an Eagle in my records."

"What's his name?" Dean asks, that creeping sensation crawling up the back of his neck again, the feeling of being watched almost too strong to ignore. He looks over his shoulder quickly, seeing nothing but the bowels of the bar and the darkness around the door, but he can't stop himself thinking that he and Ash aren't alone.

Ash drums his fingers together. "Matthew Pike," he says, and Dean frowns because the name stirs something familiar in his mind but he can't think of where he knows that name – there's no face that springs to mind in his father's organization that fits the name. "You wouldn't know him," Ash continues, waving his hand and confirming Dean's suspicions, "he's a new guy – got hired two years after you left."

Dean swallows, stifling his growl. "Who is he, then?" he demands.

Ash sighs. "He's…well…" He grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's kind of John's secretary. I've never met him, but I've been keeping track of the money, you know, and the guy gets paid enough to either be a pro hit man or he's sucking _someone's_ cock."

Dean shakes his head, pushing himself up off the barstool and walking a few steps away, almost to the door leading down to the basement before he turns around. It's too _quiet_ here. "Why the fuck is some _secretary_ looking at my files?" he demands, knowing of course that Ash can only provide the 'what', not the 'why'. He breathes in deeply, scrubbing his nails through his hair. "Who else looked?"

"Some guy called 'Castiel'. No last name," Ash supplies, eyes dark and worried looking Dean up and down, and Dean feels like he's about to choke. Fuck. _Fuck_. "Dean? You okay?"

And Dean wants to laugh. No. No, he's not fucking okay. "When did he look? Castiel?"

"Some time around yesterday," Ash replies hesitantly, an increasingly worried look coming over his face. "Look, Dean, it's okay," he says, holding his hands out towards Dean like he's some kind of spooked animal. "He didn't take anything worth taking, and I got all of it now – you're safe, okay? This guy can't _find_ you, anyway -."

It's too damn quiet in here. Where the fuck is Jo? Dean rolls his shoulders, holding up a hand to stay Ash's continuing reassurances. "I trust you, Ash. Thanks, really – I…" He sighs, rubbing his fingers into his eyes and grimacing at the pressure building up behind them. He hasn't been able to sleep for what feels like forever.

"I have to go," he finally says, heaving out his breath and nodding to himself. He's already brought too much attention to this place by showing up two times so close together, and if an Angel is tailing him and a high-ranking Eagle too, then that means he _really_ has to keep his head down and lay low. "I'll keep in touch, okay Ash?"

"Stay safe, Dean," Ash says, accepting the hand Dean places on his shoulder and walking him out to the door. "I'll keep tabs on anyone trying to find me or anything, but, yeah – just. Here." He hands Dean a small slip of paper with an address penciled on it. "You can buy bullets for your pistol there. Don't do anything too stupid."

Dean forces a smile to his face, strained and a little hysterical. "That's rich coming from you," he teases, because he has to and he wouldn't be able to live with himself for putting that look on Ash's face. Ash has a face meant for lazy smiles and bright-eyed joy, not the pinched worry that's overcome him now. Especially not for someone like Dean.

He pulls Ash into another hug, breathing in the scent of dust and warmth that always clings to him. "Thank you, Ash," he says sincerely, closing his eyes when Ash's smaller arms wrap around him just as tightly, squeezing back. Then he pulls away, pocketing the note and pulling his jacket more closely around his body against the cold, ducking his head down as he starts to walk away.

He rounds the corner and almost runs into Jo. "Jesus, fuck," he curses, jumping back, "you scared the crap outta me."

"You're gettin' soft then," she replies, affectionate and smirking, her weight resting on one leg and her hands buried deep into the pockets of her coat, head cocked to one side and eyebrow raised. "Where you headed?"

"Home," Dean replies shortly, shivering a little and pulling his coat more tightly around himself. The creeping sensation up the back of his neck hasn't gotten any better now that he's outside, and while he likes Jo well enough, he really hasn't hung out with her enough to still call her a friend, enough to feel the usual easy camaraderie that affects most of his relationships. He can't trust her like a girl on Mary – she's still technically an Eagle loyalist, even if her family supports Ash.

She nods, blowing out a loud breath through her lips. "Some guy came in asking about you the other day," she says, as though discussing the weather, rocking back on her heels, and it feels like Dean has been punched. "Little guy, kinda squirrely. Gave me the heebies."

"Would I know him?" Dean asks, swallowing back his frustration when Jo shakes her head.

"Doubt it," she mutters. "He's a new guy."

"Try me."

Her eyes flick over to his face, assessing and blank. "Little guy, like I said," she says, shifting her weight. "Blonde hair, blue eyes. Like, really blue. Almost grey, even." She shivers, biting her lower, glossy lip. "Felt like he was staring right through me – he was really, like, well, charming in the beginning, but then it's like this switch just _flipped_ and he -." She shivers again, this time not because of cold, and turns her face away. "Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads up. Away from anyone's ears."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I didn't see anyone in the Roadhouse but me and Ash."

She snorts. "If you thought you guys were alone, then you're even softer than I'd thought," she replies with a derisive laugh, and Dean's stomach clenches at the knowledge that he was right, that his instincts had been right.

Fuck, he needs to get out of here.

"Well, thanks for the warning I guess," Dean replies, skirting around her and heading on down the street. "Keep your head down, Jo. We don't need anything else happening to good people 'cause of me."

Her eyes narrow – he can feel the accusation against the back of his head like a heavy weight – but he forces himself to keep walking. He already has enough blood on his hands, and he doesn't need to be reminded of just how much he's already hurt Jo's family – not when he's still asking so much of them, not when he's still putting them in danger.

Dean makes it back to the church unmolested, winding his way through the city streets in as confusing a pattern as he can to try and lose whoever may or may not be following him, and the sun is just setting over the tops of the buildings when he steps into the warm air of the vaulted building with a relieved sigh. At once that peaceful feeling settles over him and he is thankful that there are only a few patrons spread around the church, and they ignore him as he makes his way to the back room that Bobby gave him as his own.

He pulls his gun out of the back of his jeans and sets it down underneath the pillow, sighing heavily as he sits on the thin mattress and runs his hands through his hair. Castiel tried to case him out – he looked at Dean's files, and still went to him for help, still accepted his help and let Dean talk his ear off for an entire night. Presumably, he's seen Dean's arrest record. Hell, he might even know that Dean's an ex-Eagle, and he still trusted him enough to share secluded space with him, trusted Dean essentially with his life.

What the fuck kind of man _is_ Castiel?


	8. Eight

Castiel shifts his weight, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. He has only been up to the penthouse suite of their main office building once, for the party celebrating him getting his wings. Technically, this is where the Archangel works, his official office. Castiel has heard rumors that he often spends the night here, too, but those are largely unconfirmed. He knows that he, as a Principality, is certainly not high enough on the list to know such information about their leader.

Truthfully, he would not be up here at all under normal circumstances, but he knows the only person who would have absolute knowledge of the situation is Michael. Through Gabriel, Castiel had managed to get himself a quick meeting with their leader, and he has never felt so nervous in his life.

Michael is _all_. He is the absolute power over them – with a flick of his wrist or a nod to the right man, any one of them would be found dead in the street several towns over with no ties linking them back here. He is a fierce man, but fair and just as far as Castiel has heard.

He swallows and looks up when the door to Michael's private rooms opens, revealing the Archangel. He looks good, put together and the picture of success and riches, his eyes bright and his smile welcoming as he opens his arms wide and takes Castiel's hand in his own when the lesser Angel stands.

"Castiel! It's good to see you," he says, and Castiel smiles down at his superior's shoes. He is not sure if Michael really knows his name, or if he is simply reminded by an appointment book, but it feels strangely like summer heat to stand so close to Michael. The Archangel is charming, charismatic, and Castiel's idol. "Gabriel told me you would like to speak to me alone?"

"Yes," Castiel replies, nodding once and following Michael into a small office space sectioned off from the rest of the suite. Inside the chairs are comfortably large and leather-bound, made for sprawling across and relaxing in. He waits for Michael to take one before settling himself in another, across from the man with a low, dark wooden table separating them. Michael's suit is the same color as the black leather chair. "I've run into difficulties with my current assignment."

Michael frowns, cocking his head to one side. His neatly-trimmed nails tap a rhythm across the arm of his chair. "And because I outrank Gabriel, you want me to reassign you?"

"What?" Castiel blinks, and hurriedly shakes his head. "No! Not at all," he says quickly, shaking his head again and sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees. "I've met someone who I think could be a great asset to us. The only issue is that his background is murky at best, and I'm unsure where his true loyalties lie." He pauses, biting his lower lip. "You know the name of everyone who works under your wings, Archangel. Tell me; have you ever heard the name 'Dean'?"

Michael blinks, his eyes narrowing briefly before his expression smoothes out into one of careful neutrality. "Dean." He says the name slowly, his nails drumming one more quick staccato beat on the armchair. His eyes look Castiel up and down, slowly, measured, and for long enough that Castiel shifts in place and has to force himself to maintain eye contact. "No, Castiel, I can't say I have welcomed anyone under the name of 'Dean' into the flock."

Castiel releases his breath, nodding. "I had figured as much," he says solemnly.

"Is this someone I need to be worried about, Castiel?"

The younger Angel frowns for a moment. "Did Samandriel not come to you?" he asks, his frown deepening when Michael merely shakes his head. "Oh. Three days ago there was a breach of our firewall. Several files were stolen, and mine was copied – and we have yet to figure out who did it. This man – Dean – I was looking at his files, and not even later that day they went missing." He pauses, carefully taking in Michael's frowning face, his white knuckles. "I had advised Samandriel to come to you. I can't imagine why he did not."

Michael presses his lips together, before he abruptly looks away and pushes himself to his feet. Castiel feels the loss of his gaze as though a heavy weight has just settled on his shoulders. "Perhaps Samandriel thought Gabriel was of a high enough rank to pass the message to, and I have not received word yet. I'll admit I have yet to check my updates from my brothers."

"Of course," Castiel says, standing as well and taking Michael's hand to shake. "That must be the reason."

Then, Michael smiles, and Castiel feels warm again. "Thank you for bringing this news to me, Castiel. I'm sorry I could not be more helpful."

"Thank you, Archangel," Castiel replies, bowing his head once in respect before taking leave of the office. He does not notice Michael frowning at his back, or the way the older man's hands flex, his left thumb fitted tight to the saddle of his right hand.

Once Castiel returns to the main levels of the office building, he is tempted to find Samandriel and demand answers of him, but something keeps him reined in. He now knows that Dean is almost definitely an Eagle or Eagle loyalist, and if that is the case then he should tread very lightly. Dean could have friends in here – the fact that Samandriel did not contact his superiors about a breach is suspicious, to say the least, and Castiel is reluctant to attempt to show more of his cards before he understands what game he is playing.

He needs answers, and he is determined to get them. He must visit Dean soon – if he is not on the Boulevard tonight, then Castiel will come the next night, and the next, until Dean shows himself.

"Gabriel!" he calls, catching his mentor's sleeve as Gabriel passes him by, swallowing at the expectant look he receives. "I need to borrow your car."

 

 

It's almost ridiculous how happy Dean is when he finds a decent Laundromat near Bobby's church. He no longer feels comfortable there, too aware of the eyes that might be watching. The statue of the avenging Angel has been set as one of the first things people see when they walk in, the figurehead of the aisle leading to the altar, somehow glittering as grey stone in sunlight when compared to the duller wood and the slate and marble of the actual church.

The statue is beautiful, but Dean doesn't like to spend too much time around it. Just in case.

All of his clothes can fit into one spin cycle, but because he wants to linger and doesn't want to return to the church until he absolutely has to, Dean separates his jeans from his shirts, socks and underwear, and even colorizes his shirts. He staggers them, too, just to give him something to do between the loads.

He's alone in the Laundromat, and while normally he would hesitate, the shirt he is currently wearing has definitely seen better days – it's gross with three-day sweat stains and grass smears and he's almost positive there's a streak of dried semen on his back, so he quickly hauls it off over his head and throws it into the newest load.

He sits on one of the unused driers, kicking his heels against the side and watching the clothes swirl and rotate, lost in the rhythm of the machines knocking together and the colors swinging around, when he feels the cold blast of new air as the door opens.

The low whistle automatically gets his attention, and his shoulders stiffen as he lifts his head and narrows his eyes at the three men who just entered. Figures. Of course nothing in Dean's life can be so easy and relaxing as waiting out a spin cycle.

He recognizes one of the men as one of Sam's personal guard. The man looks somewhat jittery, like he's been drinking too much coffee, his fingers flexing and unflexing by his side. The other man flanking their leader is too new for Dean to remember his face. In the middle stands Azazel.

Dean's mouth twists and he quickly reaches for his pistol hidden underneath his folded jacket. He has the weapon aimed at Azazel's heart just in time to hear the click of a slide being drawn back. There's two guns aimed for him, but that doesn't matter.

Azazel's eyes skip down, his upper lip curling in disgust. Dean knows that the mangled remains of his Eagle branding still stand out starkly against his skin. The angry red star inside a circle of flame is still recognizable under the crisscrossing of white scar lines he'd drawn into himself to break the seal, severing the mark of his father from his skin as well as he could.

He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the way the muzzles of two guns follow his movements, aimed for his heart. "Well, if it ain't good old Yellow-Eyes. To what to I owe the bad aftertaste?"

Azazel grins. "You'd know all about bad tastes in your mouth, wouldn't you?" he replies, smoothing his hands down the halves of his suit jacket, like Dean's presence in his sight has dirtied him. "We've been looking for you."

Dean smirks, his fingers flexing around his gun. It only has a few bullets left – enough to take out the three if his aim is still as good as it used to be. But Azazel doesn't need to know that.

Azazel used to use nicknames for him and Sam. 'Kiddo' or 'Boy' or 'Sammy' and 'Deano'. The absence of them feels weird; an open-ended sentence hanging in the air. It bothers Dean more than he would care to admit – he hasn't spoken to anyone from the organization aside from Sam in so long, he'd forgotten how easy it was to fall back in.

Dean swallows, hefts his gun up to aim for Azazel's forehead. "Yeah, well, I figured you'd done enough talkin' for a century. I've been getting your _messages_ ," he spits, unable to stop the hatred bleeding through. This asshole killed Chuck – or at least ordered the hit, Dean is sure of it – and did awful things to the cars, the _Impala_ , just to fuck Dean over. Dean can bury and burn this man a thousand times and still take pleasure in it.

Azazel raises one eyebrow, his teeth bared in a false, lopsided smile. "Well, be that as it may, I can't help but notice that you are, apparently, _still here_." He sighs, clapping his hands together, and shakes his head. "We can't be having that. We want you to leave the city."

" _We_?" Dean challenges, his grip tightening. Like fuck is he being run out of the place he's called home – the place he has known now through the aches in his knees and the weight on his shoulders for so long. This is where he _belongs_ , no matter how shitty his life gets. He belongs near Sam, and he belongs in this city where his mother was born and where she's buried.

Azazel smiles, rocking on his heels. "We," he repeats, nodding once. The washing machine behind Dean beeps twice, loudly, signaling its end. "You should get that," Azazel says, gesturing to the machine, before turning to leave. "You have twenty-four hours."

Dean grits his teeth, lowering his weapon when the guard men turn and file out behind him. He wonders why one of Sam's was with Azazel – maybe Sam had hoped he'd be found. Maybe he's looking for Dean. Fuck.

_Fuck_. Dean turns around, setting his pistol down and hurriedly changing over his clothes, throwing the wet ones into a drier and starting it with an almost vicious jerk. His fingers almost scatter his quarters, the machine gives a disapproving click when he slams the door shut too harshly.

Once the machine is going, Dean braces himself against an unused one and breathes out. In, out, deep, even, _slowly, Dean, calm down, it's okay_.

Except it's not okay. His mother's voice sounds far away and faint – he's not even sure if it counts as Mom anymore. He barely remembers her face, let alone her voice. His father hadn't let him take any of his possessions with him when he was thrown out. He's not sure what they did with his room – maybe his pictures of his mother went up in flames just like she did. Maybe they're sitting in a landfill somewhere. Maybe they're untouched, preserved as just another chapter in John Winchester's life that he would rather never see again.

Fuck. He has nothing, now – he needs to get the fuck out of here. He needs to hide where not even Azazel would dare to go. But he can't just disappear, and, damn it, he _will_ be at Sam's wedding if it kills him. And for that he needs Castiel, but Castiel's on to him and things are going so fucking wrong so fucking fast.

_Breathe, Dean, baby, it's okay. Angels are watching over you._

Not _the_ Angels, of course. Real ones. God's sentinels. Dean snorts, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and flinches when the second washing machine beeps at him. There's less in this one, more socks and a few of his older shirts, and he quickly piles those into a second dryer and loses himself in the monotonous drone of the steadily rocking machine.

_Get it together, Winchester._ So the schedule's moved up a bit. That's fine – Dean simply has a day to find the spy and nullify the threat. He can do that – if he goes to Mary tonight, finds Castiel, they go hunting? Sure. Easy as fucking pie.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical, before he shakes himself out of it. He lets his fingers linger on the edge of his pistol and breathes out, feeling the warmed grip under his touch.

 

 

Dean doesn't recognize the car when it gets pulled around, but there's no mistaking the face of the man inside. He feels like a new man, clean and ready to go as he waits for Castiel's nod before he slides into the passenger's seat and they make their way back to that dark, abandoned alley.

Castiel kills the engine, and Dean heaves a sigh, resting his head back against the headrest. The silence isn't uneasy, though he knows it should be because Castiel fucking _looked at his files_ and who knows what he might know or suspect about Dean, but something about Castiel is easy. Calming.

Castiel, after a moment, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crisp, folded bundle of five twenties. "I want the full thing," he asks, and Dean blinks, almost surprised at the sudden forwardness.

But this he can do. This he knows. He shrugs off his jacket and folds his gun into it, putting it between his feet. "In the backseat or outside?" he asks.

Castiel smiles, his eyes roaming appreciatively over Dean's arms and shoulders. "Backseat."

The car is spacious, not at all like the ugly yellow car Castiel has been driving for the last week or so. It is almost built like a limo, with plenty of room for Dean to stretch out on his back with his legs folded up against his chest, if he wanted.

"How do you want me?" he asks over his shoulder, grinning when he finds that Castiel is already standing right behind him. The man's eyes are dark in the low light, his lower lip already a little redder.

Castiel swallows, raising his eyes to meet Dean's. "On your back."

Dean throws him a wink. "You got it," he says, crawling into the backseat and digging out a lubed condom from his back pocket, handing it to Castiel. Castiel has enough room to kneel down in the space between the front seat and the back, and Dean slides his jeans just past his thighs, and kicks one shoe off to give him room to remove his jeans so that he can spread out as much as possible in the space.

Castiel watches him, his mouth open, breathing heavy when he reaches out to run a hand along Dean's thigh. Dean sits up, pulling him in by his tie into a kiss as he takes the condom back, tearing it open and setting it to one side.

"Don't you worry about me," he murmurs against Castiel's mouth. "Wanna make you feel good, Angel."

There's something very, very _dirty_ about the way Dean says that word. Castiel feels the shiver of arousal from behind his eyes to the base of his spine, and he kisses Dean again and again, fingers fumbling to undo his slacks and push them down with his underwear just enough to free his cock.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel gasps, his hand flying to Dean's shoulder and gripping tight when Dean wraps a warm hand around his cock, laughing against his mouth. He can feel Dean's teeth against his lips, and God, he _wants_ Dean, wants to be inside of him already, with no ulterior motive other than to crave the closeness and heat of Dean underneath him.

He pushes Dean's thighs apart and grinds between them, able to feel Dean's erection against his own when Dean takes them both in hand and strokes lazily.

"Mm, yeah," Dean moans, eyes heavy-lidded when he pulls back, full lips bruised and red when he licks them and sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "Can't wait to get you in me, Angel -," That shiver again, _God_ , Dean is going to kill him, "Wanna feel you fucking me."

Castiel doesn't care that Dean literally does this for a living. He doesn't care that this is probably some tried and true practiced script in Dean's head – it's fucking effective. It makes him want so badly he can hardly see. He reaches for the condom and takes it out of the wrapper, rolling it onto his erection once Dean lets go. Even the tight cling of latex makes him hiss; a promise of what's to come.

Dean slides back, turns a little so that Castiel can kneel up with both knees on the seat, one of Dean's feet braced in the footwell and the other slung over the back of the chair. When Castiel drags his nails down Dean's inner thighs and reaches his ass, he moans at the wetness he can already feel there: Dean prepared himself.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he'd hoped.

Castiel doesn't care.

Dean lets out this soft, breathy little sigh when Castiel sinks a finger into him, spreading his thighs out as best he can to make room, eyelids fluttering as Castiel pushes in and back out, testing the prep job he'd already done. He's moaning – softly, but there – his cheeks flushing in the heat of the car and his hand falling to his own cock to give it lazy, slow tugs to match the rhythm.

He pulls his finger out and wipes it down the vein on Dean's cock, smirking when Dean sends him an amused look. "To help you along," he says, making Dean laugh – a sound that cuts off into an abrupt groan when Castiel braces his hand against the edge of the backseat, close to Dean's neck, and uses his other hand to guide himself in.

Dean opens easily, years of practice helping him to relax and allow the intrusion. Castiel goes slowly all the same, a low curse falling from his mouth as he tries not to lose it at the first, tight clench of Dean's ass around his cock. He's sweating, he can feel it beading on his forehead, his teeth bared and clenched as he lets himself fall against Dean, into the younger man, thrusting as deep as he can go, as slowly as he can manage, until he's fully hilted inside.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean murmurs, tilting his head back with a hum, stroking his cock a little faster. "Yeah, Cas, that's it – move, Angel, wanna feel it."

And _God_ , does Castiel want to make him. He pulls back, fucking forward a little more roughly, pleased at Dean's stuttered moan. The younger man wraps his hand around Castiel's tie, damp with sweat from Dean's chest, and pulls him down for a kiss as they start to build up a rhythm together. Dean shifts down and tilts his hips up, meeting each of Castiel's thrusts, one hand tight on Castiel's tie and pulling, the other stroking his cock faster and faster as Castiel's rhythm picks up.

Castiel shifts his grip, his hands too sweaty to really find purchase on the leather seats, and he yanks at Dean's t-shirt, using the man to brace himself as he fucks in harder, more brutally, taking out his worry and his confusion on Dean's willing, pliant body.

Dean lets go of Castiel's tie, wraps his hand around the back of his neck as they rest their foreheads together, unable to look away as Castiel fucks in, _in_ , fuck, Dean feels better than Castiel could have imagined, his eyes gleaming in the bad light from outside and his cheeks so fucking red, making the freckles on his face stand out.

He can feel his orgasm building, far too soon for his liking, as he kisses Dean and gasps against his mouth, he can feel Dean's fingers curling in his hair, and then he's coming, fucking _in, in_ and feels the rush of heat race down his spine and out of him, filling the condom.

Dean moans softly, wincing as the few harsh, stuttering jerks of Castiel's hips against his ass make him bend enough that he has an ache starting in the small of his back. He sighs, starting to relax when he feels Castiel softening, only to suck in a surprised breath when one of Castiel's hands wraps tight around his cock, picking up the rhythm that Dean had stopped once he'd come.

"I want to see it," he growls, his eyes very dark and fixed on Dean's face. "I want you to come, Dean – can you?"

And good Lord, does Dean want to. He'd been close before, but now with someone else's hand on him – a sensation that was pretty foreign with his usual clientele – he could feel himself running towards that edge pretty damn quickly. Castiel's eyes were everywhere, raking down Dean's heaving chest, his neck, his eyes, Castiel's mouth brushing against Dean's, unable to pull back far because of the death grip Dean had taken once again on his tie.

"Dean," Castiel growls, sounding more affected by the prospect of Dean's orgasm than his own. " _Dean_."

"Mm, fuck." Dean can feel it building, his legs shaking and his chest getting tight. Just a little more. "Fuck, Cas, c'mon – I'm so close, I -."

" _Yes_." Something about Castiel's voice is fierce and prideful. Dean's back arches, his breath gets caught in his throat, and then he's coming with a hoarse shout against Castiel's neck. He's so far gone he doesn't even notice Castiel shoving his shirt up out of the way so that he doesn't make a mess of it, and while he thinks it's awfully thoughtful, it's not really necessary.

It's not until he's coming down and feels a come-sticky thumb brushing over his chest, over the scarring there, that he realizes what's just happened.

"I knew it," Castiel murmured, not sounding angry, or really anything. Dean tightens his grip on Castiel's tie and forces himself to think that if he has to, he can choke the guy or something if Castiel turns violent. "I didn't want to believe, but it makes the most sense."

He pulls back, and Dean lets him go so that he can fumble his clothes back on as quickly as possible. Castiel seems to be doing the same, this tired and resigned look on his face as he pulls the condom off and throws it down by his feet, pulling his slacks back into place and straightening his tie.

Dean shifts in place, remembering his jacket and gun in the front seat. "Let me walk away," he says, trying to sound calm. "This doesn't have to get ugly."

Castiel frowns, looking over at him as though personal offended. "I'm not going to threaten you, Dean," he says, as though Dean is silly for thinking it. "I just…I should have known. You know so much about Eagles… Who are you? Really?"

Dean swallows. "You promised you wouldn't ask."

"I think we can agree that circumstances have changed."

Dean shakes his head. "No. They haven't. I'm still helping."

" _Are_ you, though?" Castiel replies, his tone sharp. "Detection techniques are no good if I don't know their integrity. And anyone who can get by playing both sides is clearly too smart to slip up like that -."

"I haven't lied," Dean growls, his eyes narrowing. "I wouldn't."

Castiel watches him, those sharp, dark eyes appraising him for a good while until Dean's skin starts to itch and he feels a creeping up the back of his neck, before the Angel sighs again and turns his face away. "Why did you decide to help me?" he asks. "If you can tell me that, without revealing who you are, I'd love to know."

Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. His chest and stomach feel sticky and gross, his entire body aches, and he's _tired_ – more than just from the orgasm, he's just _tired_. "It's personal," he mutters, rolling his eyes when Castiel merely hums. "Well, it is!"

"You didn't have to answer," Castiel replies, far too calmly for Dean's liking, even as he examines the clinging come on his fingers and wipes them off on his slacks. "But now, I know who – or at least what – you are. So where does that leave us?"

Dean swallows. "I wanna find this agent," he says. "I don't have a lot of time."

Castiel nods. "How much?"

"'Bout twenty hours, give or take."

Castiel's eyes narrow. "That…is not a lot of time," he concedes with a nod. "Why?"

Dean smirks. "It's personal."

"I see." Castiel drums his fingers against his thighs, eyes still narrowed in thought. "You stole your files away from our databases." Dean blinks, nodding along and smiling to himself.

"You looked at it first."

"I didn't know it was you," Castiel says. "I didn't know who I was even looking for – if Dean was even your real name. It was a shot in the dark, I knew, but I still had to try." He pauses for a moment, looking down, brow furrowing. "One of my coworkers alerted me to the files' disappearance, but has neglected to tell our superiors. It's…suspicious."

Dean frowns as well, cocking his head to one side. "That's…definitely…yeah. I can ask around – take me back to the Boulevard and I'll ask around. What's his Angel name?"

Castiel swallows, licking his lips, looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Why should I tell you?" Dean rolls his eyes. "I mean it, Dean. I no longer know just how much I've been giving away by talking to you – you could order a hit on him. You could kill him yourself. Why should I tell you?"

Dean doesn't answer, not right away. He yanks on the door handle and steps out, stretching his legs and pulling his arm across his chest until he can hear his shoulder crack, wincing at the sound, before he slams the door closed and climbs back into the passenger seat without another word. After a moment, Castiel follows suit, much more quietly and calmly than Dean does as he settles calmly into the driver's seat. He doesn't even blink as Dean shrugs his jacket back on but keeps his gun cradled lazily against his thigh, ready to lift and aim at a moment's notice.

They sit there for a long while, an unidentifiable tension running between them. Dean doesn't know what to do – Castiel knows what he is, now. He could kill him. He _should_ kill him. But if Dean's a dead man in under a day anyway, does it really matter?

"My full name is Dean Winchester."

Castiel's head snaps up, and he looks at the younger man with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Winchester," he breathes, like speaking the name of the Devil, and Dean can't help but smirk at the reaction, rolling his eyes to stare at the dark grey of the car's ceiling.

"Yeah," he murmurs, swallowing.

"I don't…" Castiel frowns, unable to look away from the beautiful man who'd suddenly just become so much more complicated and interesting than Castiel had thought possible. "I don't understand. Are you undercover? Why are you here?"

Dean shrugs one shoulder, pushing his tongue out behind his upper lip, between his teeth. "It's, ah." He grimaces, shaking his head. "It's complicated. But I'm not…I'm not Eagle. Not anymore. Haven't been for a long time."

Castiel's eyes narrow, his lips pressed thin and white together as he looks Dean up and down, as though he would be able to tell if Dean was lying. "How long is a long time?" he asks.

"About…shit, six years maybe?" Dean says, wincing to himself. "I, ah, got kicked out. Don't ask me why."

"Alright." Castiel nods, holding up a hand to show his peace. "I won't ask. But now you have less than a day to – to what? What's in it for you to find this double agent, if you're not working for Eagles anymore." He blinks, cocking his head to one side. "You're not a rogue Angel, are you?"

Dean barks out a harsh laugh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with an almost wistful sigh. "That's a good one, Cas." He laughs again, before sitting up straight in his seat. "Take me back to the Boulevard. I'll ask around, see what I can figure out. Then, I guess…" He shakes his head, biting his lower lip. "I guess you'll just have to take over. I gotta leave town."

Castiel frowns, but twists the keys in the ignition until the car comes back to life with a purr.

"I could help you, Dean, if you would let me," he says after a tense, quiet moment, as they round the corner and out into the better lit main street. His frown deepens when he hears Dean snort, the younger man looking out the window and tapping the muzzle of his gun against his thigh.

Dean doesn't answer, so Castiel forges on; "No man should be run out of his own city. I could…the Angels could guarantee you sanctuary, we could -."

At that, a loud, derisive laugh slips from Dean's mouth. Castiel winces, and bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself glaring at the other man. "I don't need _sanctuary_ ," Dean says, his tone bitter and full of disdain. "I need a fucking _target_ , Cas. I need to do something that – either I gotta get recognized or I gotta get the Hell outta dodge. From _both_ sides."

"You've been here six years," Castiel says, rounding the corner onto Mary Boulevard and slowing his speed, aware that at this time of night there are many drunk and disorderlies crossing the street and stumbling into the dark side alleys. "Is there no one here who aroused your suspicions? I was under the impression that…people like you…were good judges of character."

Dean narrows his eyes. "People like me, huh?" he asks, and sits forward so that he can tuck his gun into the back of his jeans as Castiel pulls to a stop outside of a particularly well-lit casino. "Fuck you too, Cas."

"Dean, I didn't -." But Dean's already out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him and making a show of wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. Castiel sighs, rubbing his clean hand over his eyes, content to pull away and maybe try to figure his own agenda out and find Dean again, offer him sanctuary once more once his timer is a little lower, but he's stopped when a woman suddenly runs out in front of his car, frantic and almost falling over in her high heels.

"Shit," he growls, slamming on the brakes and getting out of his car as the woman stumbles onto the sidewalk. She's breathing heavily – Castiel didn't see where she'd come from but, from the way she's dressed, he wouldn't guess far. Her short denim skirt is very wrinkled and there's a greasy palm-print on her thigh. She's wearing a thin denim jacket hanging loosely off her shoulders and her blouse is sheer and baby pink.

Behind him, Castiel hears an angry man shouting – "Hey, you little bitch! Get back here!"

"Matthew!" The girl is screaming, and Castiel turns around in time to see Dean turn and catch the unsteady woman in his arms, his expression immediately melting from anger to concern on seeing her. He obviously knows her. "Matthew, he's here. The – the guy I was -."

"Fuck," Dean growls, immediately going on the defensive. It's amazing to see, how Dean immediately pulls the woman in, his eyes raised and sharp and scouring the road as he holds her close, his other arm going around behind him to wrap around the grip of his gun.

"I wasn't done with you!" The angry man is yelling again, and Castiel watches as a man emerges from the shadows, going around the back of his car and heading straight for Dean and the woman. He's a skinny guy, walking hunched over, his hair short and mostly hidden by a ball cap ducked low over his eyes.

Dean's eyes narrow and he pulls his gun out, aiming squarely for the man's chest. "Back the fuck off, man," he says, lifting his chin when the man straightens, eyes narrowing at Dean.

"Matthew," the woman says, tugging on Dean's shirt. His eyes dart to her, and he leans down so that she can whisper something in his ear. Castiel watches, enthralled by this bizarre scene unfolding before him, and he wishes more than anything that he was authorized for possession of a weapon outside of supervised missions.

Dean's eyes widen, and he looks over to Castiel. He's trying to communicate something – Castiel has been around Gabriel long enough to know a meaningful look when he sees one – but for the life of him Castiel doesn't understand what.

"Look, buddy," Dean says, forcing himself to look back on the nameless aggressor. He lets go of the woman and raises his gun from chest height to eye level. "Just turn around, walk away. This doesn't have to get ugly."

Their little drama has started to attract a small crowd. The man seems to realize it as soon as Castiel does. When Dean takes another step forward, he automatically – immediately – raises his hands, holding them flat out as though pushing against an invisible wall.

Then, Castiel understands.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," the nameless man says, but refuses to take a step back. There's something almost…familiar about him, Castiel realizes. But that can't possibly be – if this man is an Eagle, then there is no way Castiel should feel as though he knows him.

And that is when Castiel fully realizes what must be happening.

It's him. Good Lord, it's _him._

Dean's eyes narrow when no one continues to move, before he swallows hard enough that Castiel can almost hear it. "Turn around and walk away," he says, his voice even.

The man lifts his hands up even farther, nodding in acquiescence, and turns around. That's when Castiel sees his face – or at least the lower half of it and a flash of his grey-blue eyes, but it's enough.

"Oh my God," he whispers, the words falling out of him, and the man freezes. Their eyes lock, wide, frozen. Castiel's fingers make an aborted movement towards him, like he could reach out despite the fact that there is still a car between them, and then the man's eyes narrow.

"Fuck," he hisses, and reaches back into his pocket. Castiel barely has time to flinch back from the flash of a gun in the bright casino lights before there's the loud _bang_ of a gunshot and the man crumples, falling forward against the back of his car and then sliding down onto the pavement.

The woman shrieks next to Dean, flinching back and away from him, away from Dean's arm that he is now lowering from firing into the back of the man's head. Dean sends her an apologetic look – Becky nods and swallows, quickly disappearing amidst the horrified onlookers.

"Nothing to see here!" Dean yells, gesturing towards the crowd with his free hand as Castiel slowly circles the car towards the man's dead body. He notes, absently, the woman's voice telling people to get on, and the quiet murmuring of crowds discussing what they'd just seen.

_Gang warfare?_ one of them asks.

_Wrong neighborhood for that, isn't it?_

Castiel swallows, kneeling down by the rapidly growing, dark pool of blood. He pulls at the baseball cap, tossing it to one side, and presses his knuckles against his mouth. His knees practically give from under him and he falls in a hard kneel, immediately curling his feet under him so that he can sit, cement cold against his ass.

"You know him?" Dean asks, coming to stand beside him. He nudges the body with his toe, turning him around so that Castiel can properly see his face – his dirty, bloody blond hair, his grey staring eyes, and the black-red bruise where the bullet hadn't exited, saving Castiel's own life.

"His name was Samandriel," Castiel said, his breathing uneven as Dean knelt down next to him. "He was – he was the one who didn't report the files."

"Suspicious," Dean says, setting his gun between his knees and beginning to rummage around Samandriel's coat and jeans pockets. Castiel is too numbed to be of any help; he merely stares into his friend's sightless eyes, trying to control his breathing. "This ain't the first time you've seen a kill, is it?" he asks.

Castiel shakes his head. "This is the first time it's been one of our own, though," he says, reaching out to push Samandriel's eyelids closed. Dean hums, sitting back and fishing through the man's wallet. "Is that really necessary?" Castiel demands, unable to keep the judging tone out of his voice.

"Well," Dean replies with a shrug, "since this I.D. here says 'Matthew Pike', and since that's the name my, ah, _friend_ told me looked at my files and has been monitoring me since day one, _and_ since that's the name of my father's secretary, apparently, _and_ since he almost _killed you today,_ I'd say yeah, it's pretty damn necessary."

"Dean." Castiel shakes his head again, unable to believe it. "I have known Samandriel for many years -."

"Apparently, so has my father. For at least five," Dean replies shortly.

The two men are silent for a moment, watching the edges of the blood stain start to dry. "He tried to kill me," Castiel says, his voice light. "He knew I would recognize him."

"He showed his hands."

"Did – what did that woman tell you?"

Dean nods. "Becky told me he was the double agent. Matched the description, at least."

Castiel frowns. "How did she know?"

"That's how I found out," Dean replies, carefully wiping the wallet off against his jeans and slipping it back into Samandriel's coat pocket. He eyes the gun for a moment, before slipping that out of the dead man's white-knuckled grip. "It's like you said -." He looks up, flashing an uneven grin. " _People like us_ know everything."

Castiel's eyes narrow, and he pushes himself to his feet. "Samandriel couldn't have been working alone. There must have been someone in your organization, feeding him information on us."

"Oh, so now it's _my_ organization, huh?" Dean snaps back, without much heat, shoving himself to his feet as well and dusting off his knees. "Eesh, Cas, you like your world black and white, don't you?"

"I'm going into the Eagle camp," Castiel says after a moment, as though he hadn't been listening to Dean, his eyes on his car.

"What?" Dean demands, his eyes widening. "Like fuck you are! With what backup? What weapons? You'll be dead before you hit the gates!"

Castiel reaches out for the gun still in Dean's hand. "I was hoping to use Samandriel's gun," he says, his eyes hard and fixed on Dean's face. "Give it to me, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes, holding the gun out for Castiel to take. The grip slides easier into Castiel's hands, a forty-five, heavier than his usual weapon but still good and – thankfully, he thinks as he checks the bullets – mostly loaded.

"So, what, a half-full gun and the power of love? You have no _plan_ , Castiel."

"Exactly," the other man replies, straightening. "I have no plan. No warning, no nothing – I'm going to go in there and now there is literally no one who could possibly warn them of my pending arrival." Dean can't think of a single thing to say.

"What even for?" he finally asks.

Castiel shrugs one shoulder. "Information? Revenge? I haven't decided yet. Samandriel…" He swallows, looking down at his friend. "Samandriel was _good_ ," he says. "I've known him for – for a long time, Dean. I've known him. He wasn't – he wasn't bad. He wasn't -."

He can't finish, but Dean knows what he's going to say. _He wasn't one of you_.

"You have nothing, Castiel," Dean says quietly. "You won't gain anything by going in there with nothing."

Castiel takes a deep breath, dragging his eyes away from Samandriel's corpse and meeting Dean's eyes. There's something cold and determined in his face, Dean thinks, as he squares his jaw and lifts his gun-wielding hand to point the muzzle at Dean's chest.

"I have the son of an Eagle, and the biggest opening I'm going to get," Castiel says evenly. "You might be a dead man walking either way, but I can make the last twenty hours you have in this city very uncomfortable."

Dean swallows, refusing to look away from Castiel's hard gaze. "What happened to sanctuary?" he asks, the joke falling flat. He _really_ hates the feeling of guns trained on him; he's had far too much of that in his life.

Castiel hums, his eyes narrowing, head cocked to one side. "My offer still stands, Dean," he says after a moment, lowering his weapon. "But I am an Angel, and I am not above adding incentive. So," he smiles, "will you help me?"

"Do I have a choice?" Dean demands.

"Of course," Castiel says, shrugging. "You have free will."

"Yeah," Dean replies with a scoff. "Sure I do."

 


	9. Nine

"This is a bad idea," Dean murmurs, ducking his head at a passing couple as they shoulder their way past. "They'll know what we're up to as soon as we go in."

"I have faith in you, Dean," Castiel says, his hand reaching out just briefly to skim against the younger man's jacket sleeve. "Just provide a distraction, and I will sneak in a different way."

"I haven't been here for years." Dean's voice is quiet, his movements tense and quick. He's nervous, and he's sure he's not going a very good job at hiding it. He's about to see his family home, their grounds, for the first time in six years. "What if a bunch of shit's changed?"

"According to the building plans we have of the Winchester estate, there haven't been many renovations done since at least a decade ago," Castiel reports, as though reading from a maintenance sheet. "And even then it was just the addition of another wing. Nothing will have changed, Dean."

_Except me_ , Dean thinks to himself, sighing and squaring his shoulders as they round the final corner towards the grand, arching gates leading to the Winchester grounds. The gates are solid steel and twice the height of a regular man, with big, sharp spikes along the top of a graceful upwards arch that peaks in the middle.

The gate is flanked by a man at either side. Dean doesn't know if either of them will recognize him. He kind of hopes they don't.

He kind of hopes they do.

Castiel stops him with a hand around his wrist, pulling him back around the corner until Dean practically collides with Castiel's chest.

"Please tell me you're having second thoughts," Dean says, grinning when Castiel does nothing to move away or put some space between them.

Castiel shakes his head. "Good luck," he says – and then, for a reason Dean doesn't quite understand, he wraps a hand around the back of Dean's neck and kisses him – quick and hard, teeth against his lips. When he lets go Castiel blinks, looking just as shocked that he did that as Dean does. "I'll meet you in the main house. Don't do anything too stupid."

Dean swallows. "Same for you," he says, voice rougher than he'd intended it to be, and Castiel smiles, before he turns and strides away quickly back down the street. Dean knows he will go to one of the servant entrances, one of the back roads for deliveries and more covert operations. Dean really, really hopes he doesn't go and get himself killed.

He sighs, tapping his fingers against the gun still tucked, skin-warm, in the back of his jeans, and rolls his shoulders. "Get a fucking grip, Winchester," he says, squaring his jaw and sucking in another deep breath.

Whenever he used to get nervous, or scared, he used to channel his father. John Winchester, for all his flaws, is a sturdy and determined man.

Dean tries for that, and hopes he doesn't come across as a scared little mouse crawling up to the lion's den.

He approaches the man on the right, and lifts his hands when he sees the man shift his weight and narrow his eyes. Dean vaguely recognizes him as one of Sam's men – not the one that had been on Azazel's escort, but one of Sam's all the same. He doesn't understand why.

"Who are you?" the man challenges, his dark eyes raking over Dean's dirty self.

Dean swallows. Well. Here goes nothing.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he says, after a moment. "Do you know who I am?"

The man blinks, eyes widening, mouth falling open. "Holy crap!" he mutters, his voice breaking on the curse word. Dean grins, nodding to himself.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes'," he says, putting his hands back in his pockets, forcing his stance to relax. "Let me in."

"Of course!" the man says, immediately turning around and punching in the key code to open the smaller, man-sized cut out of one of the gates. Dean gives him a half-hearted salute as he passes by. "Welcome home, Sir."

Dean forces himself not to stop, a heavy frown on his face as he digs his fingers deep into his pockets and pulls the halves of his jacket around his body. "This is fucking weird," he thinks, wondering if perhaps he's still wandering into some kind of ridiculous, elaborate trap. It certainly stinks like a trap, except who in the Hell would think Dean might be desperate enough to walk in the front door? Why would the guards just let him in?

The whole think stinks something rotten, and Dean keeps his eyes and ears open as he walks up the long, winding paced road up towards the main house. The house is set just over the crest of a hill, another stone wall wrapped around it that serves more of an aesthetic purpose than for any real protection or security. Dean knows enough about the house to know the wall was his mother's design, and that just on the other side in one of the far corners is a beautiful little garden with a small pond and huge, overhanging trees to give the entire place good shade no matter what time of day. Whenever Dean thinks of it, he smells heather, but he can't remember much else about it.

The wall is broken on two sides, for the road leading in and the back entrance road for deliveries and servicemen. The road is shaded with tall oaks on either side, casting him in shadow, but he knows the set of six guards flanking the entrance have definitely seen him – he's walking right in the middle of the road, not trying to hide. He's not sure what he's trying to do; he'd been a little hazy on the plans. If there is one thing Dean Winchester is good at, it's winging it and hoping for the best.

Two of the men break formation to approach him, and Dean holds up his hands again. "We've been expecting you, Winchester," one of them says as the other one grabs Dean's arm and pulls him to walk between the two of them. "Boss said you'd be coming."

"Oh yeah, who's 'we'?" Dean asks, putting up a little struggle for performance's sake but ultimately going along with the men. Whatever weird-ass Twilight Zone universe he seems to have fallen into, apparently this one does not involve the intent to kill him. So, small blessings.

The men don't answer his question, two more falling into step behind him as they cross over the threshold into the main grounds. Dean casts one last look over his shoulder, wondering if maybe Castiel had double-bluffed him – as now that there are a significantly decreased (and manageable) number at the front entrance – and intends to follow along behind. Then, the man holding him jostles him roughly and Dean curses, straightening himself out to avoid stumbling.

The paved road gives way to gravel, and at last Dean allows himself to look up at where they're going. The house is much the same as he remembers it – two grand floors with high windows and dark red brick framing the house. The second story is lit along a small wraparound balcony, shining up and illuminating the upper floor so that, if there is anyone inside, they remain unseen to Dean's eyes.

There are two thick pillars on either side of the door, another pair of men standing between each of them. Dean throws them a grin as he passes by, but none of the men seem to acknowledge him or his escort in any way.

Being inside the Winchester house is like coming home, only to immediately realize that it isn't home anymore. The place looks the same; dark red tile on the floor, mixed with swirls of white and gold marbling. There is a wooden staircase leading up to a door on the right, and two doors on either side of the wide, square entrance hall. Dean is let go by the guards once he's inside, allowed to take it all in for a moment.

The air feels stale when it drags it into his lungs, breathing out just as heavily. He knows even if he'd walked in with a long line of captured Angels and informants and the most expensive suit money could buy on his body, he'd still feel out of place here. Now, dirty and come-stained and probably smelling far too much like other men and blood, he knows he doesn't belong.

It's oddly consoling, somehow. He never would have tried had it not been for Sam. It's kind of nice to know that there was no way in all of Hell it was ever going to happen; even if he'd come back, even if his father had forgiven him, Dean can no longer call this a home; _his_ home. It's just a big, stale house.

"This way," the man says, jerking his head towards the staircase. Dean follows, letting his hand drag along the bannister as one guard goes in front of him, the other walking behind. He knows exactly where John Winchester's office is; they will go through this door, and then turn right, passing two rooms on the left that lead to another office and a coat closet. Then, they will turn left down the first corridor, and walk down a long-ass hallway that Dean had never been able to convince himself, as a child, could actually fit inside the building. It might be even longer with the wing added to it, and Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes and makes an overcompensation joke in his head.

The man in front of him leads and Dean follows, his hands back in his pockets, and takes a moment to wonder where in the fuck Castiel might be right now. Has he already been captured? Will Dean walk into his father's office and see the Angel, beaten up and bloody and kneeling with a gun pointed to the back of his head?

Dean hasn't pulled a heist since he was a teenager, and he certainly has never done it so underprepared and outgunned. The long corridor leading down to his father's office feels ever longer than he ever remembers it being.

The door is open, revealing a slice of the opulent office beyond. Dean can almost smell the old ledgers, the thick leather chairs and freshly polished wood. He had been there when his father first built the office, bringing him between dust sheets and walls of plaster and ladders and bustling contractors, telling him where everything was going to go inside and getting dust in his beard.

A gun jabs into the small of his back, startling him out of the memory. "In you go, Winchester," the man says, and Dean shoots him a glare over his shoulder, before licking his lips and rolling his shoulders.

He doesn't reply, merely pushes his hand against the smooth, dark wood. The door opens without a sound, revealing a corner view of the big office. A giant window shows the city in dazzling lights, dark red curtains framing it and hanging down to the floor. That big, shining desk sits in front of it, a large black chair facing away from him and towards the window.

Dean looks around, up the walls that are lined with old books his father probably never even touched, just enjoyed the look of anyway. He brushes his fingers against one of the shelves and smirks when it comes back with a thick layer of dust.

The door shuts behind him, and the chair spins around at the same time. Without hesitation Dean reaches back and pulls his gun from his jeans, aiming it squarely at the occupant's head. The silver muzzle flashes in the low-hanging brass lighting fixture above his head.

He blinks, straightening when he realizes that the man in the chair is not John Winchester.

"…Sammy?"

 

 

Castiel gives a low grunt of effort, twisting his hands sideways in a sharp motion to break the neck of the man clawing desperately at his hands. The man's body immediately goes limp, and Castiel lays him gently on the ground, searching his pockets for weapons and keycards – the Winchesters, he knows, are a big fan of keycards. He finds a pistol that he tucks into an inner pocket in his coat, and a long knife that he pushes into his waistband at his side.

At the back entrance there is a single red light blinking at him next to a nine-digit keypad. He recognizes it as the same ones at the North Trust bank, and silently sends another thankful prayer upwards as he swipes the card and steps inside.

The walls are blank and a dark grey, the floor covered in black linoleum. It looks surprisingly cheap, Castiel thinks, as he strides inside and down the corridor. He cannot see any cameras, and there are no doors either side of the hallway. There is a single one at the end and, gun loaded and at the ready, he cautiously pushes at it until it opens outwards.

The next room he comes to is much more opulent. There are soft-looking chairs and a long, dark dining room table that looks as though it could seat about fifty people. On the wall is a single large painting of a soaring Eagle with the star in a sun brand that Castiel had seen on Dean's chest; that was the sign of the Eagles. His mouth twists, looking at it with an almost derisive eye, before he turns his attention back to the room.

There are two doors; one leads, he knows, into the belly of the building, or at least in that direction. The other juts out into a different side. He checks that door first; it looks less used, there is less wear around the handle and when he pushes it open it squeaks slightly.

There is another corridor, with a door on either side. Just as Castiel notices, he hears voices behind the door he had not chosen to go across. With a low curse, he hurries inside and closes the door behind him as quickly as he dares, plunging the corridor into darkness.

He dares not turn on a light, though feeling along the wall he can find the switch. "Damn it," he mutters, feeling along the waist-height ride of paneling along the wall until he comes to the first door, on the left. He can hear the voices getting closer, boisterous laughter and words loud but indecipherable from where he is.

He opens the door on the left and shoulders his way in before he can think twice about it, sure that he might be mildly safer behind two doors than one, and flicks on the light.

It's a bedroom. There is a thick layer of dust along every surface. Everything appears to have been untouched for months, at least. There is a wide, plainly-made bed with a dark green, thin blanket spread over a beige duvet. The walls are painted a muted, warm cream color. The whole room feels very welcoming, comforting almost, as Castiel steps inside.

There is a picture on the bedside table. He doesn't recognize the woman, but the man he certainly knows; John Winchester, Dean's father. The woman, he assumes, is his mother. They are smiling and young in the photograph and Castiel can see where Dean got his smile, even though most of the ones Castiel has been witness to are cheap and fake in comparison.

He turns around, and he can see a set of three photographs; Dean with Sam on a birthday, maybe ten years ago at least, Sam with cake on his face and laughing while Dean is pulling a funny face at him. The second shows Dean with a young blonde woman Castiel doesn't recognize in a rustic-looking bar, beer in one hand, his other wrapped around her waist.

The third makes Castiel frown. It's Dean and John. They're shaking hands. Dean's whole demeanor is very, very different than in any of the other photos; his chin is raised, shoulders square. He's standing like a soldier greeting his commanding officer, not as a son with his father.

An unpleasant feeling curls up in the base of Castiel's stomach, and he turns away. He must be in Dean's room. After Dean had left the organization, it must have remained untouched. His mouth twists when he thinks about it.

He waits for several minutes before venturing out of the room again, careful to listen for any sign that there might be company waiting for him in the dining room. He finds none, and proceeds cautiously towards the other door leading out of the dining room.

When he pushes through another door, he realizes he must have made it into the main room of the house. There are at least four doors sprouting from the room, and a second floor at that. With a low curse, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, walking swiftly back the way he had come and into the dining room, his back to the door leading to the abandoned bedrooms, eyes turning between each one.

"Gabriel," he says once the line picks up. "I need a guided tour."

"Castiel." Gabriel's voice is rough and bleary, and Castiel frowns. He probably had woken Gabriel up. "Right now? Where are you?"

Castiel cocks his head, holding the phone away from his ear for a moment. He could have sword he'd heard a creak somewhere. Frowning, he puts the phone back to his ear.

"The Winchester estate."

" _What_?" Gabriel yells, making Castiel wince on the other end of the phone. "You're in the – how? You need to update me _right now_ , Cas."

"There's too much to tell," Castiel replies, straightening up and lifting his gun. Yes, he's definitely sure he heard a noise. "Gimme a minute." Quickly, he lowers the phone and pulls the handle leading back towards Dean's bedroom, closing it behind him. "Samandriel is dead."

Gabriel is silent for a moment. Castiel can hear him taking a deep breath, and letting it out again. "Who killed him?" he asks.

Castiel hesitates for a split second. "I did," he finally says, earning a low curse from his superior. "I caught him in a compromising situation, and he pulled a gun on me. I acted. But now -." Castiel stops, turning to press his ear back against the door. Where the _fuck_ is that sound coming from? The corridor is completely dark and he can't see a damn thing. "Samandriel was doubling as a Matthew Pike for the Eagles, Gabriel – he was the spy. And I thought that, with him gone, a covert operation might yield more information to us."

"You _dumbass_ ," Gabriel growls, and Castiel can hear him shuffling around – probably getting out of bed and over to his computer to access the Angel database. "Fuck, you fucking idiot, _fine_. Sit tight; I'll get you out of there."

Castiel sighs. "I don't want to get _out_ ," he says. "I want to get _in_. Find their files. I want you to lead me there."

"Damn it, Cas, _no_. I'm not losing _two_ fledglings in the same day; Michael would kill me!"

"Gabriel, I am already inside. I know my way out. Samandriel had been working for John Winchester for at least five years – think of how many others there might be! I _need_ profiles, I need names; I need fucking home addresses. Gabriel, _please_ , this could be our only chance."

Suddenly, a light blinks on, and Castiel curses, shielding his eyes as he blinks into the sight of four men in the corridor, two-by-two, all with guns pointed at him. "Fuck," he murmurs, his fingers flexing around his own gun.

"I'd drop it, if I were you," one of them says, his smile far too wide to remind Castiel of anything other than the Cheshire cat; sharp and not quite normal. Castiel grimaces, and lets the gun fall to the floor with a hollow clatter. "The phone, too."

Castiel sighs, pulling it away from his ear and snapping it closed, ending the call. He throws it with a little more force against the ground, grinding his heel into the phone before the men can reach it.

The leader raises an eyebrow, smirking. "No need for that; you've been quite talkative so far. Shall we?"

He jerks his head, and the man by his side approaches. Castiel reaches behind him, fingers wrapping tight around the blade tucked into his waistband, and swipes before the man can get too close. He manages to catch the man's raised hand, earning a rough curse from the man, and he fumbles with the door handle behind him and quickly runs back through it, reaching for his other gun.

He turns, just in time for another guard's fist to connect with his nose, sending him to one knee on the floor. Before he can recover, the four from the other side of the door step through, and the leader takes the butt of his own pistol, the one he's stolen from Samandriel, and brings it down hard against his temple.

Castiel crumples to the floor with a groan, and the man hums, nudging him with his foot distastefully. "Go see the medic," he commands the injured man, leaving the three guards to flank him. "Get him to his feet."

Two come forward, hauling Castiel to stand on shaky legs.

"An Angel, all alone, flies into my web in the middle of the night?" The man grins, lifting Castiel's chin so that he can see the man's strange, yellow-golden eyes. "Must be my lucky day."

 

 

"Sammy, is that you?" he asks, his voice leaving him almost completely on that one name alone. Sam, to his credit, seems just as shocked to see Dean as Dean is to see him.

" _Dean_?" Sam asks, pushing himself up to his feet. Dean lowers his gun as Sam crosses the room in several big, hurried strides, wrapping him up tight in a crushing hug. "Oh my God, _Dean_."

Dean frowns, confusion warring within him. But he can't fight the familiar, long-missed feeling of his little brother hugging him so damn tightly. He slings his free arm around Sam's back tightly, letting his face press against Sam's neck.

When they pull away, Sam looks so damn happy to see him it _hurts_. He looks good, hair well combed and shiny, new-looking suit and bright eyes. He looks a damn sight more tired than when Dean last saw him; the circles under his eyes are darker, the bags heavier, but when he smiles it's like he completely lights up from the inside.

"What…" Dean swallows, clears his throat to try and get his voice back, and that's when Sam seems to notice the gun still held tightly in Dean's hand. He takes a step back and Dean keeps his eyes fixed on his brother's face. "What are you doin' in Dad's chair, Sammy?"

Sam frowns, biting his lip. "Dean…Dad had a heart attack. He died a couple days ago."

"… _What_?" Dean asks, unable to believe it.

"That's why I thought you were here! I thought you'd heard, that you were coming home -." Sam frowns again, shaking his head at Dean's shocked look. "You really didn't know?"

No. No, Dean hadn't. Had Castiel? Had the Angel known just what exactly Dean was walking into here?

He shakes his head, and it feels like he can't breathe. All this time. His father died hating him, and Dean had always run from him. His fingers tighten around his gun and he swallows hard.

But, of course, it all makes sense. That's why Sam's man was on Azazel; they're _all_ Sam's men now.

"I'm in charge now, Dean," Sam says, too gently. He reaches out, brushing a hand against Dean's shoulder. "You can come _home_."

Dean swallows again, lifting his eyes to Sam's. "Yellow-Eyes has a timer on me," he says, biting his lower lip when Sam's face immediately darkens. Neither of the brothers had been particularly fond of John Winchester's second-in-command. "I got less than a day 'fore he runs me out himself."

Sam shakes his head. "No. Azazel works for me, now. He doesn't do _shit_ without my say-so."

"I promise, Sammy, he's comin' after me." Dean runs a hand through his hair, a huff of pained laughter escaping him. "Figures I come to plant a bullet in the sonuvabitch and he beats me to it. _Fuck_." The anger is coming, now. The asshole couldn't even stay alive long enough for Dean to get his last words in. It's so ultimately _John Winchester_ that Dean wants to laugh. Maybe shoot something. "I shot his secretary."

Sam blinks. "Pike?" he asks, his upper lip curling back in distaste for the man. "Why?"

"Because Dad was right about me, Sam!" Dean says, his voice raising in volume as he throws his hands out to either side of him. He doesn't miss the way Sam's eyes wander down him; he can see the dirt on Dean's knees, the sweat stains under his arm, and probably the streak up his torso where his shirt had stuck to the come on his chest. "And now he's _dead_ and – and what? You're in charge and now everything's going to be _okay_?" He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Fuck," he growls, letting out a rough, pained sound. "Fuck, you have no idea how -."

"I don't trust Azazel," Sam murmurs after a moment, his voice hard, jaw set when Dean looks at him again. God, he looks so much like their father that Dean kind of wants to punch him. "And I would have done more, but fuck, Dean – the card went dead, I didn't hear anything from you! I didn't even know you were alive until one of my guys said they saw you! You _disappeared_. Where the fuck have you been?"

Dean huffs, wiping his hand over his mouth, and steps away from the corner so that he doesn't quite feel as much like a trapped animal. Sam's eyes follow him, until Dean's facing the door he came through and the lights from outside throw Sam's face into sharp, stern angles.

"I tried, Sammy," Dean says, finally, after what feels like forever staring at his little brother and wondering when Sam started looking so much like John Winchester. "I tried gettin' back in. I tried to find a way Dad would come around, see me as useful again. Pike was playin' doubles, Sammy. I dunno who for, but I guess it doesn't matter now."

"He was an _Angel_?"

Dean nods.

"How did -? How did you even know what -?" Sam takes a step forward, reaching for him, before visibly stopping himself. "You jump ship too?"

"Don't do that," Dean growls, grimacing. "Don't say it like that."

"Dean…" Sam holds a hand out, palm up like he expects Dean to just take it. "You're my big brother. I love you. I just want you to come _home_. That’s all I've ever wanted." Dean stares at Sam's hand, and it takes the younger man longer than Dean thinks it should have for him to drop his hand again. "What were you even gonna do, hmm? You got enough bullets for the whole compound? You workin' alone?"

"No, he's not, Sammy-boy."

Dean freezes, unable to stop his lips curling into a hateful snarl as the door behind him slides open, revealing Azazel. The man strides through, his grin far too wide and baring teeth, and behind him come three black-clad men dragging Castiel through. There's blood across the man's nose and running down from his temple, but his eyes are bright and narrowed on Sam and Dean as he's hauled into the room and sent to his knees with a vicious kick. Dean winces in sympathy; the floor is hard and unforgiving and that will definitely hurt like a bitch.

"Found this one skulking around the back wall," Azazel says, kicking at Castiel's knee and earning a mouthful of bloody saliva spat onto his shoe for his trouble. "He was carrying this."

He untucks Castiel's – Samandriel's – gun from his coat and hands it over to Sam. The Winchester sigil is just visible on the bottom of the gun, as well as the acronym _N.T.B._ on the grip. Every Eagle of sufficient rank carries a weapon with their motto inscribed on it somewhere. Dean's own has the words _Non Timebo Mala_ etched neatly along the slide.

"It was Pike's."

Sam frowns, his eyes darting to Dean before falling back to the gun, which he takes from Azazel's grip and turns it over in his hands. "You said you killed Pike?" he asks Dean quietly, and Dean nods, his mouth twisting, his gun raised and pointed square at Azazel's chest.

There's a gun held to the back of Castiel's head; the man is breathing hard and shakily, but not out of panic. Or at least, no fear shows on his face; his mouth is a thin line and his eyes are calm, his jaw clenched. The other men have their weapons drawn but held down at their sides.

Realistically, Dean could kill Azazel and maybe one other before the man behind Castiel blew his brains out. Or he could kill the one aimed for Castiel and get himself shot in the process.

It doesn't look good.

Sam's eyes turn to Castiel, and he taps the muzzle of Pike's gun against his thigh. "You were there when this happened?" he asks, and Castiel licks his lips, lifting his eyes, and nods. "So, my brother kills a guy in front of you and you decide to take his gun and come raid a mafia den?"

Castiel's lip curls up on one side, his eyes flashing with amusement. "You must be Sam Winchester," he says, taking a moment to spit out another mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor. It stains his mouth, and when he licks his lips they become shiny and red. "It's an honor."

"Smartass," Azazel growls, and the man behind Castiel pushes his gun harder against the base of the Angel's skull, forcing his head back down.

Dean's hand tightens around his weapon and he takes a step forward. The man on Castiel's right raises his gun at Dean's chest, threatening. "Don't you fucking touch him," he hisses, hardly able to put volume into his voice. He cannot stand, in that moment, how much he hates Azazel; it feels like a physical block in his throat, his heart hammering fast and loud in his ears.

Azazel's eyes narrow, as though just noticing Dean for the first time. "I can't help but notice you're _still here_ ," he says with a huff. "And bringing _guests_ uninvited into the house."

Sam frowns. "So you did threaten him?" he asks, his whole demeanor abruptly changing from confused, passive, to defensive as he lets Samandriel's gun fall into place in his hand, aiming it for Azazel's chest too. Dean immediately switches his target to the man pointing a gun at Castiel, smugly pleased when the whole trio shifts in uneasiness. "You _knew_ I gave an order that Dean was to be welcomed back here, and you threatened him, and told him to leave instead?"

Azazel huffs, showing his hands. "Look, Sammy-boy, I -."

" _I_ am in charge now, and it's _Sam_ ," Sam growls, taking a step forward, his finger sliding into place along the trigger. "And I don't wanna fuckin' hear it. _No one_ threatens him, do you understand?"

"Look, this whole 'love and forgiveness' thing you've got for your whore of a brother is very touching, but -."

" _No_!" Sam yells, shifting his aim from Azazel's chest up to his forehead. "No, you don't say another fucking _word_."

"Sammy," Dean warns, taking a step towards his little brother. Like this, they form one side, Azazel and his crew and Castiel on the other. Dean looks carefully, takes in the expressions on the other men's faces. They look panicked, afraid; they know they are probably two wrong words away from a bloody and violent death.

"Azazel has a timer on you," Sam says, slowly, like he's trying the words out. "That's what you said, right?"

Dean swallows, and nods. "Yeah."

"Then that's all I need to know."

Sam fires, and then several things happen at once. The man closest to Azazel shoves him to one side, so that Sam's bullet shoots through the air and clips the older man across the forehead, instead of the dead-center forehead shot it was supposed to be. Dean fires at the man holding a gun to Castiel's head, and then the other, both of them dropping to the floor with slick, heavy thuds.

Sam fires again, the man who had saved Azazel getting caught in the fire and dropping to the ground. Both brothers turn, aiming for Azazel, only to find the man slipping out through the door which Dean had entered from, disappearing from sight.

"Fuck!" Dean growls, lowering his gun, before he turns around and hauls Castiel to his feet with one hand under his arm, making sure he's steady before letting go. "You got another weapon?" he asks, and Castiel nods, wincing and wiping at his bloody forehead, pulling the second gun he'd stolen from the guard out to show Dean. "Good. We gotta go after him; he's gonna raise the alarm and hunt you down."

"No – Dean, this is ridiculous!" Sam argues, pulling at Dean's shoulder as the pair start to make their way after Azazel. Dean turns around quickly, grimacing in pain at the sudden motion. Unnoticed, he tucks his free hand into his pocket and pushes it tight against his side. "You don't have to _run_ anymore. I can send out an order and make sure your – your _friend_ , I guess, gets out. It'll be okay, Dean, don't -."

"There are more coming," Castiel reports from his place by the door, the door cracked open with his shoulder, gun at the ready. Around them, a siren's wail starts up; the alarm has been tripped.

"Fuck," Dean growls, rubbing his nose with the outside of his wrist. "Fuck, no, Sammy – I gotta make sure he gets out okay. I'll…"

He stops, swallowing, and looks his little brother in the eye. Sam looks so distressed, tears building up and shining in the harsh light. Dean hasn't seen Sam cry for at least six years; he thinks Sam might have cried the day their father kicked him out, but he can't be sure because he hadn't been allowed to see Sam.

"I'll come back, Sammy," he promises, quietly. Sam nods, swallowing, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the side of Dean's neck, bringing him in for another quick hug. Dean winces again, pulling his hand out of his pocket just long enough to pat Sam on the back. His fingers are moist, and he swallows and hurriedly pushes his hand back in. "I'll see you soon."

"Dean, for the love of _God_ , please be safe," Sam says as Dean turns to follow Castiel out of the door.

"You too, little brother." Dean forces a grin to his face, saluting with his gun, before he slips out of the door, leaving Sam alone in their father's office while the sirens wail on around them.

 

 

They're louder in the corridor, and when Dean passes he can see the bodies of three men already on the ground. "When the fuck did -?"

"This gun has a silencer," Castiel says, almost impressed with it. "I may have to keep it."

Dean huffs a weak laugh, cut off when Castiel abruptly pushes at his chest with his arm, slamming them back against the wall. Dean moans in pain, cursing as he pulls his hand from his pocket and carefully pulls at the half of his jacket covering the slowly-growing patch of blood along his side.

Castiel sees it, and straightens with a frown. "When the fuck did this happen?" he demands, pulling Dean's bloody hand away and lifting his shirt to peel at the wound.

Dean shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe somethin' grazed me, the guy I shot second, I don't know."

Castiel huffs, letting the shirt fall again. "There's too much blood, and I'm not a medic. You need a doctor," he says as though the sudden realization is of great inconvenience to him. "I need a phone. Do you have a phone?" Dean shakes his head.

There are at least three men around the corner, waiting for them. Castiel can see their shadows moving against the opposite wall. From the other side, he has no idea how many he should expect. He had been led away from the way he'd come in, and so he is heading towards the…what? The main room? He curses his throbbing head, annoyed that he could have gotten so lost so easily. Gabriel trained him better than this, damn it.

Gabriel. Castiel closes his eyes, and thinks of his mentor. Surely in all of his teachings, this kind of situation might warrant some of his advice. Beside him, Dean is starting to breathe more heavily, and the scent of blood is getting worse.

The last time Castiel had faced such ridiculous odds, he'd been with Gabriel. Gabriel had been shot too, he thinks with a wry laugh. He must have some sort of curse on him.

He's jarred out of his thoughts by Dean pushing himself away from the wall, towards the opposite, and lifting his gun to rest against his chest. "How many bullets you got?" he asks, and Castiel quickly checks.

"Ten," he replies.

Dean nods. "So fourteen between the two of us," he says, grinning. There's blood around his teeth. "I like those odds."

"Dean, you're wounded." Castiel frowns, looking out to the moving shadows cast on the opposite wall. There might be more now, and he thinks he can hear footsteps coming from the other way. "There must be a better way."

Dean shakes his head, pushing him up and away from the wall. At least he can still stand, Castiel thinks, eyeing the streaks of blood Dean leaves behind with his fingers. "There's at least three there. I can take those out myself. Once they're gone, you fucking run for it, you got me?"

"Dean, _no_ ," Castiel growls, reaching for him, letting out another frustrated sound when Dean merely shrugs him off. "I dragged you into this, and you need medical attention. Stay here, get somewhere safe, and I can bring backup."

"You gonna raid the entire estate for one guy, Cas? Gimme a break." At Castiel's protest, Dean turns around, pressing the muzzle of his gun against Castiel's chest. "Back off, Cas. I'm not some innocent fucking civilian you need to protect." He pulls the gun away, forcing a grin onto his face. "Now let's do this."

 

 

Dean manages to take one down, crouching down and taking cover behind one of the thick, luxurious chairs in the main room. Then, the bullets start coming. The guards are carrying pistols, and Dean is smart about it; he counts, waits for the brief standstill of them reloading before stretching out and shooting two more bullets, before he ducks back into cover.

A bullet catches his shoulder and he cries out, pushing his bloody hand against his wounded shoulder, but saves his last bullet for now. Castiel waits until the shooting falls silent again before he steps out, and from his vantage point the man is in clear sight and goes down quickly.

"Come on," Castiel says, hauling Dean up to his feet. Dean growls in pain, his skin pale and clammy, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Come on, Dean, stay with me."

"Cas, just fuckin' _leave_ ," Dean hisses, walking hunched over now, his hand pressed tight to his shoulder. It's bleeding a lot more than his stomach wound, and when Castiel turns Dean around he can see the bloody exit wound on the other side. _Fuck_. "Get outta here, man."

"No," Castiel replies curtly, bending down to search for a phone on one of the fallen guards while Dean leans against the bannister and eyes the bottom floor. From up above he has a better vantage point, but he only has one bullet left, and Castiel only has nine.

"Gabriel," Castiel says, his voice quiet and rushed. "Yes, I'm fine. I need a car, around the corner from the front Winchester gate. As soon as you can. I need a doctor. Yes. _Thank you_ , Gabriel." He drops the phone, then, and grabs Dean and pulls him upright again. "Come on. I'm not leaving you. Let's go."

" _Bossy_ ," Dean complains, gingerly making his way down the stairs as Castiel takes over point. "I should'a known from the way you fuck, I guess."

"I know what I like," Castiel replies without missing a beat, and Dean finds it in himself to quietly laugh.

They waste two more bullets on the men that had been left behind at the wall when Dean came in. The sirens are still going strong and back in the building Dean can hear men shouting. They stick close to the shadows of the oak trees and make their stumbling way down the winding road, where the gravel gives way back into pavement, and the air is cold and crisp.

Dean gets weaker by the step, his blood loss making his face pale and his steps weak and dragging. The toes of his boots drag roughly against the ground, his breathing is so heavy—Castiel knows they aren't sneaking up on anyone. He keeps closing his eyes for longer and longer times, almost blind as Castiel leads him back towards the main gate.

When they get there, Castiel lets out a low growling "Fuck". There are a lot of men gathered there now, where there had only been two. He can't quite make out the amount, the silhouettes keep moving and the air is too dark beyond to give any contrast, but he knows they're there. "We have company."

Dean groans quietly, shoulder braced against one of the trees, and slowly slides down until he's crouching, whole body weight resting against the tree. "How many?" he asks, coughing into his bloody hand. Castiel shakes his head. "C'mon, man, _guess_."

Castiel huffs. "Ten, maybe fifteen," he replies, shifting his weight so that the shadows further conceal him, looking around the corner.

"Well," Dean says after a moment, voice unsteady. "You got your guy coming, right? Maybe he'll have a gun."

"He won't walk to the gate, Dean, it'll be like shooting fish in a barrel!" Castiel argues, narrowing his eyes and trying to make out the number. He thinks he can count a row of five heads – so maybe double that.

They definitely don't have enough bullets.

"Come here." Dean yanks on his sleeve, forcing Castiel to one bruised knee with a soft hiss. "Gimme your gun." Castiel obeys, handing Dean the pistol, and he watches as Dean blinks and tries to focus though the sights, aiming through the shrubbery they're hiding behind.

"Are you sure you can shoot?" Castiel murmurs.

Dean swallows, licking his lips, blood smeared around them with his tongue. "Gonna give it a shot," he says. "What's the worst that could happen?"

He takes a moment, blinking slowly, before squeezing the trigger oh-so-gently. Castiel doesn't see where it hits, but one of the men gives a startled cry of pain and the rest immediately raise their weapons.

"Not a kill shot," Castiel says, chiding gently.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "Still a shot," he whispers, before aiming and firing again. This time there is another thud, soundless. The men are starting to fire wildly in every direction and, with a curse, Castiel quickly pulls Dean back behind the tree, wincing at the sound of bullets hitting rough bark and splitting cracking pieces off the tree.

Dean turns back around, and fires three more times. Two more drop, Castiel thinks, and a third clangs harshly against the metal gate. They open fire on the pair a second time, this time Castiel thinks that the shots are definitely aiming their way – they know where Dean and Castiel are now, and these guards are not merely carrying pistols, but heavier guns. Castiel tries to count, but there are so many that he loses track.

Dean manages to get the last three bullets in before the slide slips back and he's squeezing the trigger of an empty gun. With a snarl he throws it away into the grass. "Well, looks like we just got my one left," he says, pulling his own out. "How many now?"

Castiel sighs, shaking his head. "I don't fucking _know_ ," he says. "I think we're down to four."

Dean laughs, resting his head back against the rough tree bark with a tired sigh. "Well, it's been a while, but I don't think I can take down _four_ with one bullet."

"Better make this one count, then," Castiel says, bracing himself carefully over Dean's body so that he can peer around the tree. The men have gathered close together and there are definitely four left, Castiel can see. He narrows his eyes, sighing, and tries to think. "Give me that gun," he whispers, reaching down until he feels the skin-warmed metal in his hands. There is a single street light just beyond the gate and it is providing most, if not all, of the illumination for the men trying to shoot them.

Gabriel had always said he was a good shot.

He takes a deep breath, and stands up straight, aiming the gun upwards. He isn't quite used to Dean's gun, the sight a little shorter than his own, the grip smoother and warmer from Dean's hands than he would notice after holding his own gun, but it's still a weapon, still a familiar weight in his hands.

He takes another deep breath, and fires, and the world is plunged into darkness.

The men shout all at once, confused and afraid. One of them has a flashlight and uses it to frantically scan the darkness, but he's looking in the wrong direction, intent on finding a second shooter. "They must have split up!" Castiel hears. "Quick, spread out. Search for them!"

"Time to go," he mutters, bending down and hauling Dean to his feet again. The man has all but passed out now, blood spilling from his mouth dripping down his chin, the front of his shirt practically soaked through now will blood. Castiel swallows, and doesn't allow himself to think of what might happen if they'd waited too long, or pushed Dean too hard. He can't allow himself to think like that.

Dean is like Gabriel; they're both tough, stubborn men who Death would probably spit back out of Hell if they ever wandered in there. Dean's dead weight across his shoulders means he can't move quickly, but he doesn't need speed; he just needs to get the fuck out of the way and let them overtake his position.

He presses both of them tight against the wall, and waits until the roving flashlights are out of his sight and the men are not quite so loud. The human-sized door in the gate opens with a screech and Castiel curses again, hurrying through the shadows to the end of the road and around the corner.

Gabriel is there – God bless Gabriel, Castiel will never say another bad word about him again. He shoves open his door with a loud curse, damning Castiel's name to the seventh circle of Hell, and Castiel wants to hug him so tightly that he can't breathe anymore, let alone speak. He's so relieved he thinks he might collapse where he stands.

"Who's your friend?" Gabriel asks when he's done threatening Castiel to fire him and have his wings covered up out of sheer stupidity, and Castiel grunts, opening the back door and dumping Dean into the backseat as carefully as he can. "Holy shit, is that – is that your hooker?"

Castiel sighs, resting his hand on the car door. Dean is still breathing, at least – shallowly, but there. His eyes are roving wildly beneath his closed lids, and he's no longer bleeding quite so badly. But, of course, that isn't necessarily a good thing.

"His name is Dean Winchester," Castiel says, pushing Dean's legs in and shutting the door before turning to meet Gabriel's wide eyes, "and he needs a hospital."

 


	10. Ten

The air is warm and full of sunlight. High above them, the mid-morning sun sits in an absolutely cloudless sky, and a gentle breeze coming from east of the city stirs up hair and stray napkins, sending the white paper scattering across the big lawn. There are large, round tables dressed in pretty spring green and gold, ten chairs around each table and facing the main stage. There are people laughing, drinking wine over half-eaten steaks, sharing banter, exchanging exclamations of surprise and joy that each one of them had made it to that day.

Amidst the group, one suited man with a silvery scar on his forehead stands up and goes over to the stage, where a lone microphone stands. He gestures to the wedding band to quiet down and clinks his knife against his glass into the microphone, prompting silence from the crowd.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining us all on this beautiful day," he says, smiling widely at the muffled applause and one, single hearty cheer. "I know not everyone has known Sammy-boy as long as I -."

"It's 'Sam', Azazel," comes a voice, prompting a chorus of laughter.

Azazel smiles, raising his glass and nodding his head. "Sam," he says, turning towards the source of the voice. Sam Winchester and Jessica Winchester are seated at their own solo table, at a right angle to the stage and facing the band. Jessica looks beautiful, her hair teased by the breeze, falling down around her shoulders in a thick mesh of blonde and light brown. Her white dress clings to her upper body, giving way to a loose and flowing floor-length skirt that has become slightly green with grass stains, and she smiles when she turns to her husband, their fingers interlacing on top of the tablecloths. Sam smiles, too, giving a nod for Azazel to continue.

"Sam," Azazel says again, raising his glass. "It's been a little over two months since our beloved leader, and your father, passed away." A shadow passes over Sam's face, and he nods again. "But I believe I can speak for all of us, and him looking down on us, when I say that he would be very, very proud of you, for what your leadership has meant, and brought, to all of us." Another chorus of cheers breaks his speech. "And I know, with this…beautiful, vibrant woman at your side," The cheers give way to soft 'Aww's as Jessica rests her head against Sam's shoulder, "that you are destined for a long and happy life. I wish everything good and blessed for the both of you. Sam and Jessica Winchester!"

The guests all erupt into a round of applause as Azazel makes his toast, grinning and stepping down from the stage. Sam smiles, blushing a little as Jessica nudges him and makes a silent gesture towards his own glass.

"Uh, thank you, yes -." He accepts the microphone from a waitress gratefully, doing up his suit jacket and raising his own glass. "Thank you, to everyone who could come today. I know Jess and I love and appreciate all of you, and what we are – who we would be, would. Um. Would not be possible, without all of you."

The guests applaud again, and Sam can see Jessica's parents smiling from their table next to him.

"You, ah, you mentioned my father, Azazel," Sam continues, his cheeks twitching like he's forcing himself to smile, even though his voice is very serious. "I thank you for your kind words. I hope my dad would be proud of me, and I hope that wherever this leadership role takes me, that he'd support my decisions.

I'd like to, ah, take a moment to thank someone else. A lot of you came into the Eagles after he'd left. Some of you only know him as a ghost story. I'd – I'm talking about my older brother, Dean." Sam clears his throat, reaching down to tangle his fingers with Jessica's once more. Looking down at her, Sam sighs when she gives him an encouraging smile, squeezing his fingers. "He was my brother, and he was my best friend, and I loved him. And I just wanna say that – that I'm sorry he couldn't be here today. And I hope that, wherever he is, he's found peace. And thank you, to everyone who could be here today. I just wanted to make sure we remember those who can't."

 

 

Across the street from the wide, green lawn, Castiel stands, watching the edge of the proceedings with sharp, narrowed eyes. He's flanked by two men, and there is a third sitting in a car near them, listening in through a pair of headphones.

 Castiel lifts his head when the applause starts again and Sam sits back down. "What did he say?" he asks of the man in the car.

Ash shakes his head, lifting his eyes and grinning over at the man on Castiel's right. "He's talking about his big brother," he says. "Says he's sorry he couldn't be here; wants him to know he loves him, and that he hopes he's happy."

Castiel nods, half-smiling, and turns his head. "It's not too late to change your mind," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Too many people in there want me dead," he replies, shifting his weight and wincing when the motion causes the bandages around his shoulder to pull. "I'll be safer where I'm going."

"Where are you going, exactly?" Castiel asks.

Dean grins at him. "Word on the street is that Crowley's hiring a gardener," he says, and Castiel nods again. Crowley's land, it is well known, is neutral ground. Dean will be safe there, from both Eagle and Angel eyes. "I'll lay low until this all blows over, maybe make some dramatic reveal once Yellow-Eyes kicks it."

"I'll do my best to hurry that process along," Castiel replies, with so little inflection that it startles a laugh out of Dean.

"I’d like a word with you, if that's alright," the man flanking Castiel's other side says, suddenly, and Dean blinks but nods, following him a little ways away so that they're out of earshot. "Do you know who I am?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Yeah, I do," he says, looking the other man up and down. "I never thought I'd ever meet the famous Michael."

Michael's lips twitch into a wry smirk. "Believe me, that sentiment goes both ways." He holds out a hand, clasping Dean's tightly when the younger man shakes it. "Thank you for taking care of Castiel," he adds, after a moment. "He's… I'm very thankful, Dean, and know that you will always find allies within the Angels, should you change your mind."

Dean nods, licking his lips. "I'll try my chances in Purgatory first," he says, a half-joke that falls flat as soon as he says it. "You…you take care of him, okay? He has a penchant for diving head-first into trouble."

Michael grins, fully this time. "You don't have to tell me. He got that from his father." Dean blinks, frowning at the odd statement, before he decides it doesn't much matter. Ash is going to give him a ride back to the church, help him collect his shit and say goodbye to Bobby who was way better to him that Dean deserved, and then over to Crowley's lot. Today is the safest day to move around under an Eagle watch, after all.

Everyone is at the wedding.

"Dean!" Castiel calls, hurrying over to the passenger door as Dean moves to get into the car. "You're just…just leaving? Just like that?"

Dean nods. "It's the only way, Cas. I can't stay here. There's too much bad blood."

Castiel frowns, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Then, he sighs, clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders. "Will I…do you think there's ever a chance you might…?" Dean waits, unsure what Castiel is trying to ask; he doesn't want to assume.

The older man huffs a big sigh, and raises his eyes. "Do you think we will ever meet again?" he asks, all in a rush, and Dean can't help but smile.

He reaches out, wraps a hand around Castiel's tie and pulls him in for a hard, fast kiss. "Keep yourself outta trouble, Cas," he says, running a hand through the man's messy hair, and kisses him one more time. "And maybe, if you play your cards right, I'll see you on the Boulevard."

Castiel blinks, his fingers dragging against his lips as Dean pulls away, and he steps back to allow Dean to slide into Ash's car and shut the door behind him.

"You watch out for my little brother," Dean says sternly as the car stutters to life.

There's a moment, before Castiel's shocked look dissolves into a smirk. "It's practically my job now," he replies, and then Dean grins at him, and Ash puts the car into drive and pulls out of their parking space. It isn't long before the pair have disappeared down the road, loud rock music playing through the speakers and a stream of dark exhaust marking their exit. 


End file.
